


You and Me? Inevitable

by CelestialVoid



Series: Inevitable [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Darkest Minds (2018), The Darkest Minds Series - Alexandra Bracken
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Darkest Minds, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Car Chases, Dystopia, Except it's Derek's Jeep, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Kisses, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Kissing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Road Trips, Roscoe - Freeform, Rough Kissing, Sleeping Together, Sleeping in Roscoe, Sleeping in the car, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski's Jeep's Name is Roscoe, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-10-04 12:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 108,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17304896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Eight years ago, something strange happened; a disease killed 98% of the children on earth. Bur people weren’t afraid of those that died, they were afraid of those that survived. Because they knew that those that survived changed.





	1. Chapter 1

He’d never forget how it started; he’d never forget Paige Krasikeva.

She was the first to die.

Stiles would never forget the day he sat in the lunch room with his friends, talking about the plans they had for the weekend; sleepovers, birthday parties, riding their bikes in the street. Stiles would never forget the moment he looked across the table, watching as the smile fell from Paige’s face. Her dark eyes lost their shimmer as she stared into space, a faint blue glow overtaking her umber eyes. The juice box slipped from her grasp, hovering in the air as if her unmoving hand were holding it there.

He remembered calling her name, his voice quiet and scared but loud enough that it seemed to draw the attention of all the kids sitting around them.

Her lips trembled for a second before she pursed them together and swallowed hard. Her whole body shook. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Her eyes rolled back, heavy lids falling shut as the life drained from her body. She fell backwards, out of her seat, hitting the floor with a gut-wrenching thump.

Stiles leapt to his feet, sprinting around the table and over to Paige’s side. The teachers beat him to her, quickly pushing back the children who tried to see if she was okay. They didn’t need to get closer, they knew from the panicked looks on the teachers’ faces, the unspoken words in the gazes they shared, and the body that lay on the floor, limbs sprawled and unmoving.

Stiles didn’t have to get closer. He knew she was dead.

That night, Stiles woke from a nightmare. For some reason, he didn’t cry out for his mother like he usually would. Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose to his feet. He crept downstairs, following the sounds of the television as the anaemic light bled out of the open doorway that led to the living room. He felt his chest tighten as he heard the firm voice of the news presenter.

“ _Seventeen more children announced dead in strange, spontaneous circumstances. Doctors and officials are yet to determine if there is any connection between these incidences, and some have suggested there is a new medical condition in our children. Medical officials advise parents not to panic and doctors across the country are working hard to find answers_.”

Stiles stepped around the corner of the doorway, looking into the dimly-lit living room. He saw his mother sitting on the lounge chair, her legs pulled up beside her as she slouched against the arm rest, one hand held up to her face. In the glow of the television, he could see the tears that dampened her cheeks.

His dad had been called in to cover a night shift at the Sheriff’s office, and he and his mother were home alone.

“Mum,” Stiles said quietly.

Claudia bolted upright, scrambling to find the television remote and turn off the television. But she wasn’t fast enough; Stiles saw the report, the words burnt into his mind.

200 CHILDREN SPONTANEOUSLY DEAD IN STRANGE CIRCIMSTANCES.

“Hey, baby,” his mum said softly, sniffing back her sobs and wiping at her cheeks with her sleeve of her nightgown.

“I had a nightmare,” Stiles told her, still staring at the fading screen of the television.

“Come here,” Claudia whispered. She held her arms out to him, letting him clamber up onto the couch and curl up in her arms. She held him close, cradling him to her chest and pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“What happened to Paige…” he started slowly, his voice strained as he remembered what happened. “Is that happening to other kids?”

His mother tensed for a second, her heart skipping a beat as he considered lying to him. But she never could. “Yes, it is.”

“Is it going to happen to me?” Stiles asked.

Another pause. Another missed beat.

Stiles wasn’t sure whether he appreciated his mother’s honesty or whether he wanted her to lie to him, to tell him everything was going to be alright. But she never could lie, not to him.

Her arms tightened around him as she held him close and whispered, “I don’t know.”

 

 

The week leading up to his tenth birthday was meant to be one of excitement and anticipation, but it wasn’t, not this time. It had been three years since the first kids died, and he was the last kid alive on their block and one of six kids in his year level.

More and more kids had been dying, affected by a condition that the government and medical officials had named Idiopathic Adolescent Acute Neurodegeneration – or IAAN. It was a disease that affected kids under the age of eighteen. But it wasn’t the ones who died that they feared, it was those who lived—because they knew that those who survived changed.

The kids who survived were called Psi.

Kids were being taken to rehabilitation camps that the government had set up, promising parents a cure for IAAN. But there was something they weren’t saying, something they kept from the public. Whatever it was, parents seemed to pick up on it, they hid their kids away with relatives or fought to make sure their child wasn’t reported or taken away.

Stiles’ parents tried desperately to keep him safe. His mother begged his dad to let her home-school Stiles so that the men in the black uniforms – the Psi Special Forces – couldn’t take him away.

They never really talked about what was happening, turning off the tv or the radio whenever a report came on. They kept him safe though, at least until his tenth birthday.

Stiles remembers the fight they had the night before his birthday. His dad had insisted that Claudia cancel the party, after all, Stiles was the last kid on the block and the other families didn’t need the balloons and streamers out the front of their house serving as a reminder that their children were dead. Claudia was adamant that the party go ahead, desperately trying to cling to the last thread of normality in Stiles’ life, trying to let him have a childhood.

Stiles didn’t want the party. He didn’t care if there were a hundred kids or none. He just wanted a day with his parents. He wanted to wake up to another day and not die like Paige had. He wanted to wake up and not have his parents worry about him; if he was going to be taken from them in one way or another.

He doesn’t remember how the fight started, he just remembers his mother throwing a plate across the kitchen. He remembered the deafening crash as shards of porcelain scattering across the tiles, what was left of her dinner hitting the ground. If felt like life was in slow motion, everything amplified; the peas struck the ground with a thundering boom and the pieces of the broken plate danced across the tiles. He remembered the raised voices, the tears streaming down his parent’s faces. He remembered sitting at the table, watching his dad cry. He had never seen his dad cry before.

He ran upstairs, slamming the door shut behind himself and diving under the blankets. He pulled his bedsheets up over his head, breathing in the warm, stale air. He pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block out the shouting, the sound of breaking glass and overturned furniture, the sound of his parents crying.

It was hours before Stiles dared to crawl out from under the sheets.

The slivery glow of the moonlight seeped in through his open curtains, casting an eerily pale glow across his bedroom. The green light of his bed-side clock broke through the darkness. He stumbled to his feet and crept into the hallway.

The house was silent.

The screaming had stopped and his parents had gone to bed.

Stiles looked downstairs, staring at the aftermath of his parents’ fight. Broken glass, cracked photo frames, and candle holders lay shattered on the floors. The pale moonlight washed over the ruins in the hallway like a wave crashing over a rocky shore, glinting as it caught the shards of glass.

Stiles made his way along the hallway, creeping towards his parents’ bedroom. The door had been left ajar and he could hear the quiet rumble of his father’s snoring from inside the room. He pushed open the door and crept inside, stumbling through the darkness as he made his way to the side of his parents’ bed.

He climbed up onto the bed, laying down next to his mother the way he would when he was younger and running from his nightmares.

He lay there, watching as the silvery light lit his mother’s face.

She looked so young when she was sleeping, the lines that were worn into her face had faded and her eyes fluttered slightly as she dreamt. Her cheeks glistened with damp tears and Stiles knew that she had cried herself to sleep.

He shivered as the cold winter air rolled up the back of his Batman pyjama shirt. He shuffled closer to his mum, reaching out to lay his hand atop of hers.

“It’s okay, mum,” he whispered softly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

A bolt of static shocked him. Stiles gasped and jerked his hand back, the tips of his fingers tingling.

His heart was racing, numb tears rolling down his face as he cradled his arm to his chest. He scurried off the bed and ran back to his room, pulling the door shut and diving back under his blankets. He hunched over himself, pulling his knees up to his chest and curling up in a ball. His chest ached as his heart hammered against his ribs, his lungs aching for air as he gulped down broken breaths, waiting for the panic attack to subside.

His head throbbed, tears rolling down his cheeks and falling against the sheets.

At some point he must have drifted off, because the next thing he remembered was waking up to a bedroom lit by the dim and dreary morning light. He blinked his eyes open to the sight of flurries of sleet dancing past his window.

He laid still for a moment, watching the rain roll down the glass.

His head still ached as he kicked back the sheets and climbed out of bed.

He heard the sound of gushing water down the hallway and the deep sound of his father’s voice ringing out through the hallway as he sang in the shower.

He made his way downstairs, sickened by the smell of bacon that drifted through the house.

Any other day, he would have loved that smell, but it was meant to be pancakes; every birthday started with pancakes for breakfast.

Stiles swallowed hard, holding his pounding head in his hands and dragging his feet across the cold floorboards as he made his way into the kitchen.

“Mum,” he muttered as he shuffled past the table.

She didn’t seem to hear him. Her attention was on the bacon that sizzled in the pan.

“Mum,” he repeated, a little louder.

His mother gasped and spun around. The pan fell from the stove and hitting the ground with a thundering crash.

Stiles stumbled back slightly, trying to avoid the stream of hot oil that splashed at his bare feet.

The quick movement left his head spinning, bursts of colour and dark stars clouding his vision. He stood still for a second, holding his head as if it would stop the world from spinning.

“I don’t feel too good,” he whimpered, blinking the stars from his eyes.

He looked at the pan that laid on the floor and back up to his mum.

She stared back at him, her eyes wide with horror and her lips quivering.

“Mum?”

“How did you get in here?” she asked, her voice strained and quiet.

Stiles stared back at her, blinking in confusion.

“I said, how did you get in here?” she repeated, firmer.

Stiles swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

Claudia took a step forward, grabbing Stiles’ arm. “What’s your name?”

“Mum, what’s wrong?” Stiles whimpered.

Her grip tightened on his arm, searing pain coursing through his veins. “Where are your parents? How did you get in this house?”

Hot tears welled in his eyes, his arm throbbing and his chest tightening. He drew in a broken breath. “Mum—”

“Stop it,” she hissed. “Stop calling me that. I am not your mother.”

“You are!” Stiles cried.

Claudia dragged him out of the kitchen and down the hallway, towards the door that led out to the garage.

“Mum, please,” Stiles sobbed, stumbling behind his mum as she dragged him towards the door.

She unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, hurling Stiles onto the cold concrete floor of the garage.

Stiles stumbled as he tried not to fall over.

Claudia crouched down in front of him, looking him in the eye as she said, “I know you’re confused, but I promise you I’m not your mother. I don’t know how you got into this house, and I’m not sure I want to know--”

“I live here!” Stiles objected, tears falling down his cheeks. “I’m Stiles!”

He felt his words fall away as he looked at her, at the way she looked straight through him.

“My husband is the sheriff,” she told him. “He’ll help you get home, just wait here.”

She let go of Stiles’ arm, rising to her feet and shutting the door.

Stiles stayed still, frozen in place as he heard the deadlock click into place. He heard his mother call his father’s name.

“Mum, I’m sorry!” he screamed, tears streaming down his pale cheeks. He pounded his fists against the door, leaning his weight against the wood as he lost the strength in his legs. His chest ached as he cried, heaving in broken sobs. He swallowed hard, his screams tearing at his throat. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry!”

Stiles heaved in breaths, feeling the cold air burn his lungs.

There was a moment of quiet before the door opened again.

His dad stepped into the garage, his face soft as he looked down at Stiles. He knelt down on the floor, reaching out a hand to steady Stiles as he wavered.

“Son, you okay?” his dad asked his eyes full of concern as he looked down at the boy.

Stiles let out a sigh of relief. He leapt into his dad’s arms, feeling the man tense as Stiles hugged him. Stiles pulled back slightly. “She forgot me,” he sobbed. “She’s forgotten everything.”

“Okay, slow down, slow down,” his father said reassuringly. “We’ll figure this out together.”

Stiles swallowed hard, taking a moment to calm himself.

“Why don’t you start by telling me your name?”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. The air was knocked from his lungs, his body numb. Tears welled in his eyes as he staggered back. He stared at his dad, eyes widening with shock as he realised what had happened.

His dad said something as he rose to his feet, his words not reaching Stiles as he turned back towards the door. He shut the garage door behind himself and locked it again.

Stiles stood still in the darkness.

His chest felt like it was going to explode, his heart pounding his ribs.

He had to get out.

He stumbled to his feet and tried to make his way through the darkness. He shuffled around his mother’s car, making his way to the far side of the wall. He reached up for the plastic cord that hung from the motor of the roller door and tugged at it, listening to the motor rumble as the heavy garage door began to roll up.

A blast of freezing air hit him as he ducked under the garage door and stepped out onto the driveway.

Blankets of snow covered the front lawn, the skeletal trees that were planted in the yard were nothing more than lifeless husks.

Stiles blinked the haze out of his eyes, the cold air stinging his wet cheeks.

He froze, staring at the man at the end of the driveway.

He wore a dark navy uniform, his face obscured by large sunglasses.

Stiles stared at him for a moment, watching as he knelt in the snow, talking softly as he tried to coax Stiles out of the garage.

“My parents—” Stiles started, but he never found the words.

“It’s okay, son,” the man said, holding one hand out. “Come on. You’re safe.”

Stiles felt his head pound, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision. His stomach turned over and his body felt as if it would collapse beneath him. Stiles winced as he steadied himself, taking a few steps down the driveway.

His bare toes touched the snow, burning with pain.

Stiles looked up at the man, his eyes widening with panic as he realised his mistake too late.

His uniform wasn’t navy blue; it was black.

The man clenched his fist around Stiles’ hair, dragging the boy to the ground. He knelt on Stiles’ back, knocking the air from the boy’s lungs and silencing his cries as he tightened cold metal cuffs around Stiles’ wrists. He hurled Stiles to his feet, dragging him across the snow.

Stiles cried out for his parents, but they didn’t come.

 

 

The rain got heavier the closer they got to the camp.

The bus swayed and rumbled, at least a hundred kids packed into the crammed space. Some were dressed for school, others – like Stiles – still wore their pyjamas. Two armed guards in heavy black armour stood at the back of the bus, their legs spread to keep balance and their guns in their hands, ready. Another guard stood at the front of the bus, standing beside the driver and staring back at the crowd of tear-stained faces that filled the worn leather seats.

Four kids were crammed into each bus seat and Stiles was shoved up against the window. He let his eyes drift out of focus as he stared at the rivulets of water that trailed down the glass. The windows had misted up, leaving Stiles with nothing more than the ghostly illusion of the world beyond, blurs of brown, green and blue as fields rolled by.

The silence hung heavy in the air.

Stiles’ head ached and his body was weak with fatigue.

They had switched the metal cuffs for plastic zip-ties. After a while, Stiles lost the feeling in his hands, he lost track of time and space, his eyes half open in a haze of sleep as he remembered the look of fear on his mother’s face.

The bus hit a large dip, jolting Stiles and the other kids. Their bodies hit the seats again with a painful thump.

Stiles winced as he looked forward, his eyes drawn to the windshield, to what lay beyond it.

The bus drove towards a towering fence, large gates opening up as the bus drove into the camp.

Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off the fence, watching as the wire shook against the wind, rumbling and groaning. On the fence were large, brightly-coloured signs: high voltage warnings and security notices.

Stiles looked outside the window of his bus, noticing the uniformed men and women who jogged alongside the bus, guns in hand.

He felt his gut twist, his blood running cold with terror.

The bus lurched to a stop, shaking them all awake.

Everyone sat upright, their bodies stiff with terror. The rain lashed at the windows as the doors opened and another armed PSF stepped onto the bus, smearing mud and rain across the walkway.

The PSF was tall and bulky, strongly built. He pushed back the hood of his black poncho, dripping water on the floor. He had a square jaw and cold, dark eyes. His hair had been shaved off. 

“You will stand and exit the bus in an orderly fashion,” he yelled over the pouring rain. “You will be divided into groups of ten and brought in for testing. Do not try to run. Do not speak. Do not do anything other than what you are told to do. Failure to meet these instructions will be met with severe punishment.”

“Go screw yourself!” someone shouted from the back of the bus.

Everyone turned to look, eyes falling on the teenage boy who sat on the end of the seat a few rows back. His hair was long and unkempt, his dark eyes glaring at the man.

A PSF stepped forward from the back of the bus, slamming the butt of their rifle into the kid’s jaw.

The boy’s head jerked to the side, blood spraying from his mouth. It took him a second to compose himself, his head swaying slightly as streams or red dripped down his chin. Blood stained the front of his sweatshirt, his eyes burning as he tightened his jaw, livid.

The PSFs started to move the kids off the bus, but Stiles stayed where he was, looking back at the kid.

The older boy seemed to sense Stiles’ gaze, turning to look at the young boy. The anger in his face seemed to melt away, his gaze softening to one of concern and pain. The corners of his lips twitched upwards in a reassuring smile.

Stiles didn’t smile back; he just stared at the boy, his chest aching.

Before he had a chance to react, a PSF grabbed the front of Stiles’ pyjama shirt and hauled him towards the door. He slipped down the stairs, collapsing in the mud.

Another PSF lifted him to his feet.

Stiles coughed and sputtered as he gasped for air, the rain tearing at his skin.

The PSF shoved him towards a group of kids. He shivered as his bare feet sank into the bud, the hem of his pyjama pants stained and the cold seeping into his pores. His teeth chattered, his lips trembling as he watched the rest of the children stumble off the bus.

The boy with the bloody face was the last to step off the bus, the PFS who had hit him following after him. As he reached the top of the stairs, he leant forward to whisper something in the ear of the girl who walked in front of him.

She gave a subtle nod, hiding the motion by flicking her hair out of her face. She set her eyes forward, her expression composed.

Her feet hit the ground and she took off running, ducking under the arms of the nearest PSF and sprinting towards the gate.

Everyone turned to watch her, everyone but Stiles; his eyes were focused on the boy that staggered off the bus. He stood still as the PSF who had hit him with her rifle followed him off the bus, grabbing his arm. Stiles watched the older boy’s eyes light up, his irises glimmering orange for a second as he leant in close to the PSF, whispering something to her.

The PSF’s eyes glazed over, unfocused. Her grip on the boy’s arm weakened, her hand dropping to her rifle as she readjusted her grip on her gun and turned it towards herself. She opened her mouth, her lips quivering as if she were trying to fight her own actions. She placed the barrel in her mouth, her hands shaking.

Other PSFs noticed. They shouted her name, but they were too late.

She pulled the trigger.

The thundering boom tore through the air.

Stiles’ heart lurched into his throat. His stomach twisted as he watched the blood spray across the side of the bus.

The world fell silent around him as he stared at the blood that was washed away in streams by the rain.

“Run!” the boy shouted to them. “ _Run_!”

The camp erupted into chaos. Some kids took his lead, shoving aside PSFs and sprinting towards the gate. Their feet pounded against the ground, stumbling through the thick mud and struggling against the lashing rains.

Stiles didn’t move. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body felt numb.

The PSFs lifted their rifles, aiming at the kids that ran towards the fence. They open fired on the kids.

It was a massacre; bullets tore through them, bodies collapsing to the ground. Blood seeped into the mud, pooling across the ground.

Stiles’ heart thumped in his ears as bile rose into his throat.

“Orange!” one of the guards shouted.

A group of PSFs charged at the teen with the bloody face, pushing him into the mud. They slammed heavy shackles onto the teen’s wrists and ankles, pulling him back up to his feet. Mud and blood dripped from his face as they wrestled a leather muzzle around his mouth. His eyes still burnt with rage as he glared at the PSFs.

The teen’s eyes fell on Stiles, the anger washing away as fear and sorrow overcame him. He looked at Stiles with an expression that seemed to ask ‘Why didn’t you run?’

Stiles stood still, watching as the PSFs dragged the teen off.

 _Please don’t let me be one of them_ , he remembered thinking to himself. _Please don’t let me be an Orange_.

 

 

The kids were marched through the camp, passing crowds of kids who gathered outside the rows of cabins that encircled and enormous brick watchtower. They were all dressed in brightly coloured scrubs: green, blue, yellow, orange and red.

They were led into one of the large warehouse-like buildings and towards the temporary rooms that were set up along one wall.

The PSFs lined the kids up, pacing back and forth with their guns in their hands.

No one spoke.

The LED lights overhead flickering slightly. PSFs trampled mud across the linoleum floors as they walked down the hallway and cut the plastic ties that bound the kids’ wrists.

The doors that lined the hallway opened, doctors dressed in glaring white coats stepping out and looking at the line of scared children. The PSFs grabbed some of the kids, pushing them into the rooms before standing guard by the doors.

An icy chill rolled over Stiles as he stood still.

The kid beside him slid their hand into his.

He turned to look at the young boy who stood next to him, his brow hair falling around his face in a mess of unkempt curls. His dark brown eyes looked at Stiles as a soft smile lifted his cheeks.

 “Don’t be scared,” the boy – Scott – whispered to him. “Don’t let them see you cry.”

The doors opened again and the kids left, holding bundles of clothes in their hands and balancing a pair of white canvas shoes on top, scrawls of black marker drawn onto the toes – numbers. Stiles noted the colours of the scrubs; blue and green mostly.

One kid came out, already dressed in red scrubs. His hands and feet were bound by heavy shackles that rattled as they dragged across the floor. A leather muzzle had been fitted over his mouth, gagging him and keeping him silent. But it didn’t stop the burning rage in his eyes.

 _Please don’t let me be one of them_ , he thought. _Please don’t let me be an Orange_ _or a Red_.

Stiles was next. The PSF grabbed him by the front of his shirt, hauling him into one of the rooms. It was a small room, cold and sterile; the pale grey walls and white linoleum made him feel out of place and uneasy. A bed sat in the middle of the room, covered in a blue plastic sheet. The faded blue curtains that were used for privacy had been pushed back. Plastic containers full of colourful scrubs were stacked against one wall and a small metal stand with a laptop balanced atop of it was positioned near them.

Stiles stayed by the door, his back pressed against the wall as he stared at the grey halo of a machine that hung ominously over the bed.

“Name?” the man in the white coat asked.

Stiles flinched, his gaze snapping to the man who stood behind the laptop. He had short-cropped brown hair, the fringe pulled aside out of his face. His pale eyes were shadowed by dark circles. The thin black frames of his glasses rested on his nose, reflecting the glow of the computer screen. The black embroidery above his jacket pocket read _A. Harris_.

Stiles didn’t speak. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

The man looked up at the boy, noticing the way he looked at the machine with a mix of confusion and fear.

“It’s a scanner,” he told Stiles, trying to sound reassuring. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Do you know what a CT scan is? Have you ever bumped your head or broken a bone?”

Stiles shook his head.

“In a minute, I’m going to get you to lie down on the bed and that machine is going to scan you. It won’t hurt you, it’ll just make sure your head is okay,” the doctor explained, trying to keep his voice soft and reassuring. “But first you need to tell me your name.”

“Stiles,” the boy rasped. “Stiles Stilinski.”

The doctor typed the name into his laptop, waiting for a moment.

Stiles’ eyes drifted back to the machine, his chest tightening with fear.

“Damn, these guys are getting lazy,” the doctor muttered. “Did they pre-classify you?”

“Pre-classify?” Stiles repeated back.

“When the soldiers picked you up, did they ask you any questions?” the doctor asked.

Stiles shook his head.

“Okay,” the man said. “Well, there are five levels to IAAN: Greens have enhanced intelligence, Blues have telekinesis, and Yellows control electrical currents. Blues and Greens are the most common among children; Oranges and Reds are rare. Reds are pyrokinetic – they create and control fire – and Oranges have telepathic abilities.”

Stiles tried to take it all in.

“Do you have any symptoms?” the doctor asked.

“No,” Stiles whimpered. “I want to go home.”

“I know,” the man said, but there was an edge of irritation to his voice that rendered his sympathy void. “Alright, please lie down on the bed.”

Stiles looked at the machine.

 _He’ll know_ , he thought.

“Don’t make me call in one of the soldiers,” the man said warningly.

Stiles’ hands were trembling violently. He shuffled back towards the door, reaching behind himself for the handle.

The man turned to look at Stiles. “Get on the bed, kid.”

Stiles couldn’t move. Terror flooded his body as his heart hammered against his chest. He felt hot tears well in his eyes as his head began to ache.

The doctor stepped around the metal stand, storming towards Stiles. His fist grabbed the boy’s tousled hair, hurling him away from the door.

Stiles yelped, his head exploded in pain as he reached up and grabbed the man’s wrist.

The doctor froze, his pale eyes staring at Stiles, unfocused.

The world around him drained away as Stiles found himself drawn into the man’s mind. He saw the reflection of the man as he looked at himself in the mirror, dressed in a military uniform. Beside him was a plaque that read: ‘West Point US Military Academy’. The memory rushed by, making Stiles’ head throb as the blur of colour and light began to draw back into focus. He saw the doctor sitting at a bar, dressed in a faded dress shirt and looking unkempt. A blonde woman came over to sit next to him, turning her head so that the cascading golden curls fell back over her shoulder. She held a glass in front of her, the shimmering whiskey swirling about in the glass as she lifted it to her lips. A silver chain hung around her neck, the pendant sitting against her collarbone.

He saw a young boy, his hair a mess of black curls as laid on the infirmary’s cot, staring up at the machine. His expression was twisted in curiosity as he reached up, touching one finger to the grey metal. Bolts of blue light coursed across the machine, sending sparks flying as the lights in the room pulsed and shattered. Shards of glass rained down around them. The doctor looked up at the boy, watching as his eyes faded from yellow to blue. _Yellow_.

The image flashed by as Stiles found himself watching as a young blonde girl lifted her hand out in front of her. Her eyes flashed blue as she began to lift the table in front of her without touching it. _Blue_.

The next image was of a boy with shoulder-length black hair. He held his hand out behind himself, staring at his palm as his eye flashed crimson. There was a thundering roar as the air around his hand burst into fire, the dancing flames flickering as they engulfed his hand. _Red._

The next image was of a young Hispanic girl. She sat cross-legged on the bed, a series of twenty pictograph cards spread out in front of her. She glanced at them for a second before closing her eyes and reciting the pattern. _Green_.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t fight the images that came flooding into his mind. He saw himself through the doctor’s eyes, standing at the infirmary’s window and watching as the children lined up in rows, sorted by colour and marching down the muddy paths below. He watched as the muzzled children dressed in red and orange dragged their shackles across the ground.

Stiles pulled back, collapsing to his knees. He doubled over, hugging himself as he fought the nausea that twisted his gut. Darkness burnt at the edges of his vision as he fought to stay conscious. HIs head throbbed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Images of his mother’s horrified expression flooded his mind. Next came the boy with the bloody face, his friendly smile directed at Stiles—as if he knew what Stiles was, he knew he was one of them; one of the monsters.

“I’m Green,” Stiles sobbed. He struggled to lift his head, looking up at the doctor’s vacant expression. “I’m Green,” he repeated. “Please. I’m--”

“Green,” the man repeated, his voice drained.

His movements were slow and lethargic as he turned and stepped over to his computer. He typed something and a second later the computer let out a quiet chime. He turned around, digging through the box of green scrubs as he pulled out a set and handed them to Stiles. He grabbed a pair of canvas shoes, pulling the cap off a permanent marker and writing a series of numbers across the toe before setting them atop the pile of clothes.

Stiles stepped out of the room, following the PSFs that guided him downstairs and into one of the cabins where he got changed into his bright green uniform.

It wasn’t until that night, when he was laying in the darkness and staring at the bottom of the bunk above his that he realised he would only ever have one chance to escape—and he hadn’t taken it.

 

 

Thurmond.

That’s what the camp was called.

It was one of the biggest Psi rehabilitation camps with a reputation that came with it. It was where they had tested the kids in an attempt to find a cure.

The camp grew bigger and bigger as more busses were brought in.

Stiles watched as weeks turned into months and months into years. He stopped counting the days that passed, stopped counting the busses that brought kids in. All he knows is that the last bus came in three years after his when the camp was at maximum capacity—over three thousand kids. After that, they moved the Reds and Oranges out of camp.

Stiles had long lost any hope of escaping. Now, his only choice was to blend in. He kept his head low, working the Factory line or weeding the Gardens. He tried to not to draw attention, scared that one misstep would mean he’d be found out. He kept to himself, never speaking and never stepping out of line. He disappeared into the masses of bright green uniforms.

And it worked—at least until the day the White Noise went off.

The White Noise – or ‘Calm Control’ as the higher-ups liked to call it – was a noise that was designed to subdue Psi kids. The noise was created at a pitch that only affected freaks. The guards used it on them any time someone stepped out of line, started a fight, or used their powers – either by accident or on purpose. Sometimes they used it whenever they felt like torturing the freaks.

Most kids could pick themselves up after a few minutes, shaking off the nausea and calming their trembling hands as if it were nothing. But not Stiles; hours would pass before he would be able to piece himself together, disorientated and weak.

But there was something different about that day.

He was out in the Gardens when it went off.

It tore through him, searing every nerve in his body. He cried out in pain, his scream tearing its way out of his chest as he cupped his hands over his ears. His body crumbled, collapsing into the dirt.

His cries fell silent, his lips quivering as he desperately tried to gasp for breath. Trails of blood streamed through his fingers, tears and blood streaking his cheeks.

The bitter metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth, dripping past his lips as his body fell still.

The light strobed as shadows passed over their faces. The noises drowned out everything else, a dull roar that numbed him. The screams no longer affected him, nor did the warm streams of blood that covered his face.

The roar of the screams died away as everything fell still around him. His unfocused eyes stared across the ground, blood and dirt smeared across his face as he stared at the other kids in the Gardens.

From somewhere beyond the piercing noise that rang in his ears, he heard someone call his name, felt someone shake him. But he couldn’t focus enough to see a face. He couldn’t reply, couldn’t move.

His vision was overcome by a haze, the darkness creeping in.

Tears streaked his cheeks as he laid there: cold, unmoving and broken.

He didn’t fight it.

He let his eyes roll back as his eyelids fluttered shut. The ground disappeared beneath him, darkness consuming him as he fell into the abyss.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles let out a weak groan as he blinked his eyes open. He squinted against the glaring light overhead, grimacing at the bitter smell of rubbing alcohol and lemon-scented cleaner that burnt his nostrils.

His head was throbbing, his limbs weighed down like stone as Stiles tried to move but couldn’t.

He turned his head, looking at the woman who sat by his bed.

Stiles blinked heavily as he tried to focus on her. She was in her thirties and wore teal doctor scrubs, the image of a golden swan embroidered into the fabric above her breast pocket—Leda Corporation. A small gold necklace hung around her neck, the pendant was woven strands of gold with four gemstones set into the design. Her soft face was worn with creases, a kind smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were like dark smoky quartz, her gaze kind—unlike the other doctors and PSFs whose eyes were hardened and lifeless. He long dark hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, falling in messy waves down her back. A few curls had escaped the elastic tie, falling down around her face. She smelt like roses and something nostalgic.

Stiles felt cold water seep into his brow as she pressed a damp cloth to his forehead.

“You’re okay,” she said quietly, her voice soft and warm. “You’re safe. You’re going to be alright.”

Stiles wanted to glare at her, wanted to tell her that he didn’t believe a word she said, but the words never came out.

His mouth was dry, his throat scratched raw. His vision came in and out of focus.

She leant forward, pressing the cloth to his face. “Are you in any pain?”

Stiles shook his head. He wasn’t about to admit that he was.

He turned his gaze away from her, looking around at the familiar setting of the Infirmary. The faded white walls loomed over him, the linoleum floors squeaking beneath the shoes of people who walked by outside. The dusty teal curtains had been pulled shut around hi bed, the sound of voices drifting in from outside the rippling fabric. The curtains had been left open slightly, just enough to reveal the face he knew all too well.

Theo Raeken.

He was the President’s son, and the first Psi kid to have been sent to Thurmond, the first to be rehabilitated.

The posters were all over camp. Every kid knew his face.

His tan skin seemed to glow, his face composed by smiling slightly, reassuringly. His blue-grey eyes shimmered like a pool of icy water. His light brown hair was cut short, tousled and spiked with gel in a way that was youthful yet refined; fitting. He was lean with an athletic build that his clothes accentuated.

Stiles dragged his eyes away from the poster and down to the Velcro cuffs that bound his wrists to the rails of the gurney.

He winced, his ears screaming and his head pounding.

“Stiles?” the young woman said. She held up a small light and shone it into his eyes. “My name is Melissa, I’m a nurse with the Leda Corporation. We’re a big medical company that sends medical aid and doctors out to the camps to make sure you’re all alright.”

Stiles let out a dry laugh.

It was a half-truth: the Leda Corporation did send medical supplies and doctors to the camps, but they’re also the ones who ran tests on the kids, the ones who studied them like lab rats in hope of finding a cure.

“Do you know where you are?” Melissa asked, her voice calm.

He nodded.

It had been eight months since Stiles last spoke, and despite his desire to scream, he kept silent.

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.

He nodded again.

“They turned on the Calm Control after a fight broke out in the Mess Hall,” Melissa explained, reaching across the bed to unfasten the cuffs that bound Stiles’ hands.

Stiles watched her, his brow knitted together. No doctor ever undid the cuffs without a PSF present; either she was brave or stupid. Either way, Stiles felt a wave of relief was over him as he moved his free hands. He lifted one hand to his face, feeling the swollen corner of his bottom lip. He pulled his hand away, looking down at the dark streams of blood that covered his fingertips. He could feel the blood dripping from his nose and his split lip. His eyes throbbed and he knew his pale cheeks were marred with bruises.

Melissa leant forward to try and help him sit up slightly.

He drew in a sharp gasp as searing pain tore through his chest.

“Take it easy,” Melissa encouraged, adjusting the small pillow for him to lean back against. “You have some bruised ribs.”

Stiles took a second to settle, his chest aching with every breath. He drew in short gasps, tears pricking his eyes.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Melissa asked, picking up a small clipboard.

Stiles looked at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. No one ever asked for permission; they just demanded answers.

Stiles nodded hesitantly.

“When the guards set off the Calm Control, so you remember falling forward or hitting your face?” Melissa asked.

Stiles shook his head.

“I was already on the ground,” he rasped, slightly startled by the sound of his own voice.

Melissa nodded, the loose strands of hair bouncing slightly. “Do you usually experience so much pain or bleeding when the Calm Control goes off?”

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat.

 _She knows_ , his mind screamed.

Stiles swallowed hard, his chest aching as he tried to keep his breathing even.

“No,” he answered. And it was the truth—he had experienced pain before; the White Noise always hurt him more than the other boys in his cabin, but never had he felt pain on that level before. And never had the White Noise made him bleed.

“Your chart said you were classified Green – abnormal intelligence,” Melissa explained. Her dark eyes darted up to meet Stiles’. “The doctor that classified you, did he run through all the tests?”

_She knows._

Stiles didn’t answer. He set his jaw and met her gaze defiantly. He may not have had anything more than a fourth-grade education, but he knew when someone was fishing for information.

Thankfully, Stiles didn’t have to answer. He heard the all-too-familiar scuff of boots across the linoleum.

He felt a jolt of panic tear through him.

He turned back to Melissa.

“It was different this time,” he rasped.

Melissa opened her mouth to say something else, but the PSF stepped forward, pulling back the curtain.

Melissa turned to look at the man, his face stern as he said, “Time’s up.”

She nodded, setting the clipboard down in Stiles’ lap. She rose to her feet, setting the small chair aside as she turned to leave. She paused by the curtain, glancing back over her shoulder at Stiles. She didn’t say anything, but her dark eyes seemed to speak volumes.

“If your pain gets any worse, call for help,” Melissa said softly.

The PSF didn’t pull the curtain shut. Stiles glanced across the infirmary to see another boy. He couldn’t have been much older than Stiles – a year at most. His short brown hair was a mess, his pale eyes glaring at the PSF that stood by the foot of his bed as Melissa made her way over to his side. Like Stiles, his face was covered in patches of red, blue and black where bruises marred his pale skin. Blood was smeared across his jaw, streaming from his nose and torn lips.

Stiles forced himself to look away, his eyes falling on the clipboard in his lap. He hesitated for a moment before reaching to pick it up. He looked down at the piece of paper, expecting to see his medical records, or the answers to the questions Melissa had been asking him. But that wasn’t what he found.

His gut twisted and his heart sank as he read the neat scrawls of writing.

_They know you’re an Orange._

_New CC was testing for undetected Yellows, Oranges and Reds. Your reaction means they know you’re not a Green._

_They will kill you tomorrow._

Stiles felt sick. His heart hammered against his chest as he fought the bile that rose in his throat.

_I can get you out. Take the pills under this note and destroy this._

_If you choose not to come, I will keep your secret, but I can’t protect you while in here._

At the bottom of the note, it was signed, _A friend, if you’d like._

 

 

Stiles stared at the clock on the wall, watching as the thin black hands dragged their way around the circle. Each tick sounded like a thundering drum.

He had pulled the note from the clipboard and shoved it into the waistband in the small of his back. Below it had been a report that read: _Subject 3285 hit his head against the ground and fell unconscious. Nose was fractured by Subject 3286 during Calm Control. Possible concussion._

The pills were in a plastic pocket, taped to the clipboard. Stiles held them in the palm of his hands, his heart hammering against his chest.

He had a choice to make.

His mind ran rampant with thoughts.

Number of kids in Thurmond? _Over three thousand._

Number of PSFs? _Over one thousand._

Number of escape attempts?

_Five._

He couldn’t help but remember the day he was brought in.

The image of blood sprayed across the side of the bus flashed across his mind. He felt his stomach twist as he remembered the way the blood was washed away in streams by the rain, the screams of the Orange boy who tried to save them, the sound of gunfire as the PSFs shot down any kids who tried to run.

Number of successful escapes?

He remembered the look on the bloody face of the Orange boy as the PSFs wrestled a muzzle onto his face. He remembered the gaze the teen turned on Stiles, the way his anger washed away as fear, sorrow, and helplessness overcame him.

_Zero._

Stiles tried to keep his breathing steady as he balled his fist around the pills.

 _I die either way_ , he thought to himself as he pulled the pills from the small plastic pocket. He tossed them into his mouth while the PSF wasn’t looking, reaching across to the small tray beside him. He grabbed the cup of water, quickly gulping down the water.

The pills scratched at his throat as he swallowed.

He sat back against the pillow, feeling his chest tighten. He cried out in pain before he could stop himself. His body spasmed, pain coursing through his veins like an electric current. His body arched off the bed, his lungs burning as he gasped for air. He felt his body contort, darkness flooding his vision as he collapsed back against the bed.

 

 

“Stiles?”

The voice was so distant, drifting in and out of his mind. He tried to follow it, tried to drag himself through the darkness.

He slowly blinked his eyes open, his vision flooded by colour and light.

He felt his stomach heave as the world around him spun. He desperately tried to focus on something, trying to clear his vision.

“Are you sure he’s up for this?” he heard a man ask.

“He’s strong,” a familiar voice replied. They gently shook his shoulders. “Stiles, I know you can hear me. I need you to focus.”

Stiles blinked heavily, clearing the haze that blurred his vision. Blurs of colour began to take shape, his vision clearing as he found himself in a small room—a supply closet of sorts. The walls were lines with metal shelves that were stocked with boxes and bottles.

Melissa’s face came into focus. She was kneeling beside him, waving something under his nose.

Stiles winced, coughing as the bitter stench filled his nose. He tried to pull away, leaning forward on his hands and knees as the room began to spin around him.

Melissa hooked her arms under his shoulders, hoisting him onto his trembling legs.

“We need to hurry,” she said, pushing something into Stiles’ hands. “You need to get changed into these, now.”

Stiles leant back against one of the shelves, doing as she said. He unfolded the teal doctor’s scrubs and pulled them on over his bright green uniform. His hands shook, his fingers tense as he strained to tie the cord around his slender waist.

While Stiles was getting changed, he glanced over his shoulder at the other person in the room. He was a man Stiles hadn’t seen before. He was dressed in the same scrubs that Melissa wore, his short dark hair tousled and unkempt. Dark bags under his eyes made the man look withered and tied.

Stiles watched as the man held his hands behind his back, letting Melissa binding his wrists with a strip of duct tape before doing the same to his ankles.

“You have fifteen minutes to get out,” he reminded her.

“I know, I know,” Melissa replied, coiling the silver tape around the man’s ankles.

“The others will meet you in Harvey,” the man said. “Remember to take route two-fifteen.”

“I know, I know,” Melissa repeated.

She turned to look at Stiles, taking a second to register the horror and confusion on the boy’s face.

“I’ll explain everything once we’re out,” she promised. “Right now, we don’t have time; we need to hurry. They’ll be making their rounds in twenty minutes.”

“They?” Stiles muttered, his voice scratching at his dry throat.

Melissa grabbed a surgical mask, fitting it over the boy’s nose and mouth and tying off the thin strips of fabric behind Stiles’ head.

“You can’t say anything, do you understand?” Melissa said, levelling her gaze with his. “Just play along.”

Stiles nodded compliantly.

Melissa guided him towards the door, gently pushing him out into the dimmed hallway of the Infirmary.

Stiles staggered collapsing against the far wall. He heaved in heavy breaths, leaning his shoulder against the wall as he tried not to collapse to his knees and hurl up his guts.

She pulled the door shut behind herself, hurrying over to the boy’s side and looping his arm over her shoulders. She hooked her other arm around his waist, holding him upright as he stumbled down the hallway.

“We’re moving,” she muttered, bowing her head and talking into her necklace. “Return the cameras to their normal feeds.”

Stiles kept his eyes on the floor, watching as the speckled linoleum passed beneath his feet in a nauseating haze. He felt his knees weaken as he fought to stay upright. The linoleum ended and mud-splattered white tiles began.

The PSFs stepped aside as Melissa walked by. One guard called after her, asking if everything was alright.

“We need to get this one home,” she replied. “He’s not well.”

There was no argument. The PSF held open the door for her, letting her guide Stiles out into the fresh air.

A blast of cold air hit him, stinging his cheeks and making him let out a wheezing cough. He felt the droplets of icy rain fall against the exposed skin of the back of his neck, seeping into the collar of his shirt.

They crossed the camp, dragging their feet thought he mud and slush as they hurried towards the rows of parked cars.

They nearly made it when a young PSF came running over to them.

“Everything alright?” he called, his voice full of worry.

Fear tore through Stiles. It felt like jagged shards of ice had torn through his racing heart. His ears were screaming, bile rising into his throat and his head aching. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the thrashing wave of his power that crashed against his skull, desperate to be set free.

“He’s sick,” he heard Melissa say, her voice drifting in and out of his consciousness. “I’ve offered to drive him home.”

“The mask—”

“We believe it’s viral,” Melissa lied. “Just trying to stop it from spreading.”

The PSF nodded, saying something that Stiles didn’t catch.

The walkie-talkie pinned to the guard’s vest buzzed. “ _Control’s got you on camera. Do you need assistance?_ ”

The guard reached up, pushing down the button to reply. “We’re alright. Dr Finstock is sick—got that nasty bug that’s been going around. Dr…” He looked at Melissa.

“Delgado,” she replied.

“Dr Delgado is taking him home for the night,” the guard continued. “Dr Finstock’s car will be here overnight; please inform the morning guards when they do their tally.”

“ _Roger that_. _Tell them to head straight for the gate. I’ll notify the watch patrol to wave them through_.”

The next thing he knew, the PSF hoisted Stiles’ other arm over his shoulder, half-dragging the boy towards the white four-wheel-drive Melissa hurried over to. She pulled open the door and helped the PSF lift Stiles into the front seat.

“He’s really out of it,” the man remarked as Melissa reached over him to fasten his seatbelt before carefully shutting the door.

Melissa climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. The engine sputtered for a second before roaring to life. The sound of the radio filled his ears, the smooth rhythm and guitar of Pink Floyd’s ‘Wish You Were Here’ began to play. He looked at the dashboard, at the small green lights that read 6:38.

“You two take care,” the PSF farewelled as he stepped back from the car.

Melissa thanked him and drove out the parking space, the wheels spinning against het loose gravel as she fought to stay calm. Her fingers tapped impatiently at the steering wheel.

Stiles fought to keep his eyes open as they approached the towering metal gates.

 _This is it_ , Stiles thought. _This is as far as it goes._

Melissa tensed beside him, letting out a heavy breath as she turned to lower her window and talk to the approaching guard.

“Dr Delago?” the guard shouted over the pouring rain.

“Yes,” she called back. “I have Dr Finstock with me. Give me a second, I have our passes.”

“No need,” the PSF said, turning to wave at the guard in the tower by the gate.

There was a loud buzz as the gates began to open.

Stiles held his breath in disbelief.

“You’re good to go,” the guard said.

“Thank you,” Melissa replied. “And please let the register show that Dr Finstock won’t be in tomorrow.”

“Noted. Drive safe.”

“Thank you.” Melissa wound up her window, breathing out a sigh of relief as he slowly put her foot down on the pedal and drove out of the camp.

The rumbling vibrations of the car rolled through Stiles, lulling him into a sense of numbness. He let his head fall to the side, his forehead pressed up against the pool glass of the window. He felt the chill of the night seep through the glass and into his skin, but it did nothing to stop the pounding ache in his head.

He tried to hold back, fighting the monster that tried to tear its way out of his mind.

Melissa reached across the car to pull the mask away from Stiles’ face.

He tried to warn her, tried to pull away from her and tell her not to touch him, but his voice failed him.

Her fingers brushed against his cheek, the faintest, ghostly touch that opened the floodgates for his mind.

He saw a young man, his brown hair pulled back from his lean face and his dark eyes lit up with joy as he wrapped his arms around Melissa’s waist and hoisted her off her feet, spinning her in circles. The sunlight played across his tan skin, his smile radiant as they spun around and around.

As she pulled away, it felt as if someone had punched Stiles; reality slammed into him and darkness consumed his vision. His eyes fell shut and his body fell limp against the window.

 

 

It was dark when he opened his eyes hours later, the green lights of the four-wheel-drive’s dashboard showing it to be 5:20. He slowly came to his senses, straightening in his seat.

He sat forward in his seat, blinking his eyes as if to clear the haze of a dream.

The road before them stretched into oblivion, lit only by the dull glow of the car’s headlights.

He looked up at the sky above them, a pool of onyx in which the few scattered stars that glittered in the darkness like fireflies dancing across the surface of a lake.

The sun was just beginning to rise, lighting the darkness and streaking the sky with bursts of orange and blue. The darkness around them gave way to the silhouettes of towering trees and open fields that stretched across the Virginian landscape.

He was speechless, letting a weak breath fall past his lips as he realised something; he was free.

He blinked away the warm tears that welled in his eyes, ignoring them as they trailed down his numb cheeks.

His chest felt like it was going to burst as a crashing wave of relief and joy filled him.

He was free.


	3. Chapter 3

When Stiles woke, the cool breeze of the air conditioning blew against his face. He blinked his eyes open, wincing against the glaring light. He looked up at the silhouette that swayed back and forth in his vision. He blinked, watching as the shadow took the shape of a pine tree air freshener, waving about as it hung from the rear-view mirror. The sun played though the glass of the window as the sound of Mick Jagger crooning reached his ears.

Stiles sat upright, fatigue disappearing as he looked out the window. The world that flew by the was full of colour: lush evergreen trees and thick undergrowth filled with blooming wild flowers with blue, purple, white, yellow, and orange petals. Azure blue filled the sky above them, thin wisps of white clouds blowing across the sky. Open fields of green and golden wheat stretched to the horizon, dotted with farm houses and rusted-orange sheds.

He had grown so used to the world of green and blue scrubs, black of PSFs uniforms, brown mud and the grey skies that hung over Thurmond, it was as if the haze had been cleared from his mind; memories of colours he hadn’t seen in years filled his mind.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Stiles.”

He turned to look at Melissa. Her long brown hair had been pulled back into a messy pony tail, the curls cascading down her back. She had changed out of her scrubs and into a black tee shirt and jeans.

“You haven’t been in a car for a while, have you?” she asked.

Six years, Stiles realised; he hadn’t been in a car for six years.

Stiles tried to clear the haze from his mind. It struck him that they were no longer in the four-wheel-drive; they had swapped cars while he was asleep and were now driving a silver sedan.

He opened his mouth to ask a question, but his words failed him as something else caught his attention: a weak cough from the back seat.

Stiles turned to look over his shoulder at the figure that was curled up in a ball. It was the other boy from the Infirmary.

“Dr Delago—” Stiles started, his voice strained and weak.

“Please, call me Melissa,” she interrupted, an edge to her voice. She reached under her seat, picking up a plastic bottle of water and passing it to Stiles. “Here.”

Stiles took it, but he didn’t drink. He looked from the water bottle to Melissa, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Where are we? What’s going on?”

“We just left Harvey, West Virginia,” Melissa answered. “We met up with some friends who helped me switch cars and take Matt out of the medical waste box we used to get him out—don’t worry, it had airholes in it.”

“They just let you take it out? Without checking it?”

“Budget cuts mean it’s up to doctors to dump the medical waste,” Melissa explained. “Bobby and I had the duty of doing it this week.”

“Bobby?” Stiles repeated. He looked down at the ID badge pinned to the hem of his scrubs, remembering the man in the supply closet who had helped them. “Dr Finstock?”

Melissa nodded. “Yeah.”

“If he was helping you, why did you tie him up?” Stiles was struck by another thought. “Why are _you_ helping us?”

“Have you heard of the League of Children?” Melissa asked.

“A little,” Stiles admitted, but they were only rumours; stories like fairy tales of heroes coming to save kids whispered across the cabins at night to comfort those who hadn’t given up hope yet; who were still naïve enough to think they would get out of Thurmond.

“We,” Melissa began, pausing to let the word sink in, “are an organisation dedicated to helping kids affected by the government’s new laws. Alan Deaton – you’ve heard of him? He was formally an intelligence advisor for President Raeken.”

“He started the Children’s League?” Stiles guessed, trying to follow what she was telling him.

Melissa nodded. “After his daughter died and he realised what they were going to do to those who survived, he left D.C. and tried to expose all of the testing and abuse that was happening in the so-called ‘rehabilitation camps’. But every news outlet from the _New York Times_ to the _Post_ were all under the government’s control.”

“So, Deaton started the Children’s League.”

“As a way of taking matters into his own hands and helping children like you,” Melissa replied.

 _Why me_? Stiles thought.

A wave of nausea washed over him, guilt twisting at his gut. Bile rise into his throat, tears welling in his eyes as he fought the urge to throw up.

His mind drifted to the thought of the other kids, to Scott and the boys in his cabin, to the young girl with messy brown curls that he would see in the Gardens who couldn’t be more than ten years old, to all the kids who were still trapped behind the metal fences, waking up to realise that the nightmare wasn’t a dream; they were living it.

“What about the others?” Stiles rasped, his voice tearing at his dry throat.

“The others?” Melissa repeated back to him. “The other kids? They can wait; their situation wasn’t as pressing as yours. When the time is right, we’ll go back for them and get them out. But for now, they’ll live.”

Anger tore through Stiles. He let out a steady breath, feeling his eyes burn with tears, his body tense and his jaw locked.

“Oh no, Stiles,” Melissa muttered, shaking her head and letting out a heavy sigh. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise how that would sound. I was there for a few weeks and it was unbearable. I can’t imagine what it was like for you and the other kids. I shouldn’t dismiss what you’ve been through. I’m sorry.”

“I left them,” Stiles muttered through gritted teeth, his tears streaking his vision. “I just—left them.” He turned his glare on Melissa. “Why? Why did you take me? Why didn’t you help the others?”

“Because they were going to kill you, Stiles. And as hard as it is to leave them behind, the others aren’t in danger.”

“They’re _always_ in danger,” Stiles snapped. He let out a heavy breath, letting the tears fall down his cheeks. The memories flooded his mind: the PSFs hauling him to the ground and kicking him if he so much as breathed wrong, the kids strapped to large wooden posts beyond the Garden and left exposed to the elements without food or water if they spoke up against the guards, the searing agony of the White Noise tearing through them almost daily.

There was no safety in Thurmond, there was a reason that so many kids cried themselves to sleep at night.

Stiles felt the bile rise into his throat again, burning at his oesophagus as he swallowed hard.

He turned away from her, looking out the passenger-side window as he blinked away the tears. He sniffed, using the back of his hand to wipe away the trails of water that streaked his cheeks.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “You should have left me. You should have taken someone else, someone better than me.” He swallowed hard, anxiety clawing at his chest. HIs mind began to run wild. “They’ll be punished because of this, I know they will. They’ll hurt them, and it’s my fault for going; for leaving them behind.”

Melissa’s foot eased off the gas, letting the car roll to a stop as she pulled over onto the side of the road.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and reached for the door handle, pushing the door open.

Melissa reached across him and pulled the door shut. She shifted in her seat and turned to face Stiles.

“You listen to me very carefully,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “The most important thing you ever did was learn how to survive. Don’t let _anyone_ make you feel like you shouldn’t have—like you deserve to be in a camp. You are important, and you matter. You matter to me, you matter to the League, and you matter to our future.”

She paused, drawing in a deep breath.

“I won’t hurt you,” she promised. “I won’t yell at you, or let you go hungry. I will protect you for the rest of your life. I will never understand what it was like for you or what you’ve been through, but I will always be here for you if you ever need to talk about it. Do you understand?”

Stiles swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Melissa said softly. “But part of surviving is being able to move on. There’s a word—there’s nothing like it in the English language, but in Portuguese it’s _saudade_. Do you know what it means?”

Stiles shook his head.

“The closest translation is ‘missing’, but even that isn’t the perfect definition. It’s an expression of feeling—of terrible sadness. It’s the feeling you get when you realise that something you once lost is lost forever, and you can never get it back.” She dropped her gaze. “I thought about that word a lot in Thurmond. Because the lives you had—that we all had before—we can never get them back. But there’s a beginning in an end, you know? ‘When one door closes, another opens’. It’s true that you can’t reclaim what you had, but you can lock it up behind you and start anew.”

She reached under the collar of her shirt and pulled out a long silver chain. At the end, a small black button hung like a pendant. Melissa held it out for Stiles to take.

“Here,” she said, letting it fall into his hand, the silver chain pooling in the palm of his cupped hand. “It’s a panic button. If you squeeze it for twenty seconds it’ll activate and any agents nearby will respond. I don’t imagine you’ll ever need to use it, but if you ever feel scared or if we get separated, I want you to press it.”

“It’ll track me?” Stiles said, looking at the small button suspiciously.

“Only if activated,” Melissa explained. “We designed them that way so that the PSFs couldn’t accidentally stumble upon the frequency transmitted from them and track you. I promise, Stiles, you’re in control here.”

“Can I ask another question?” Stiles waited for a moment before asking, “If the Children’s League was formed to end the camps and free the kids, why did you even bother with me and Matt? Why didn’t you just blow up the Control Tower and destroy the whole camp?”

“I’m assigned to operations focused on saving kids,” Melissa said. “You can destroy a factory, and they’ll just build a new one, but if you destroy a life, then that’s it. You can never get that person back.”

“Do people have any idea?” Stiles muttered, staring down at his hands. “About the camps, I mean. Do they know that they’re not rehabilitating us?”

“I’m not sure,” Melissa admitted. “Some live in denial about the camps, others may know what’s going on but they’re too deep in their own problems to do anything. People just want to believe that you’re being treated well. Honestly, there’s so few of you now.”

“What?”

Melissa couldn’t look at him. Her voice was quiet as she said, “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but things are much worse now than they were before. The last estimate the League put together said that two percent of the country’s population of ten- to seventeen-year-olds are in reform camps.”

“And the rest?” Stiles said hesitantly. “What about the other ninety-eight percent?”

“Most of them fell victim to IAAN,” Melissa answered.

“They died,” Stiles corrected. “All the kids? Everywhere?”

“Not everywhere,” Melissa replied. “All the cases of IAAN seem to be concentrated in the United States. I don’t know how much to tell you; I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“How many?” Stiles rasped, feeling tears prick his eyes again. “How many of us are left?”

“According to the government, there are approximately a quarter of a million children under the age of eighteen, but our estimate is closer to one tenth of that.”

Stiles felt sick. His stomach flipped as he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hands shook as he unbuckled the seatbelt and leant forward, raking his fingers through his hair and cupping his hands over the back of his neck. He hung his head between his legs, heaving in deep breaths. His chest tightened and his shoulders shook. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on shoving back the pounding ache in his head.

“Are you still feeling queasy?” Melissa asked. “We had to give you a high enough dosage of penicillin to induce seizure-like symptoms. If there had been any other way, trust me, we could have done it.”

“I know,” Stiles muttered, his voice strained and weak. The only sound that reached his ears was the rumble of the tires on the road and the soft breathing that came from the boy curled up in the back seat.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Melissa reach out for him. Before Stiles could move away or tell her not to touch him, her hand fell on his shoulder. His eyes lit up with a bright orange glow as his mind melted away and the buzzing thoughts of her mind overwhelmed his. He fell into her memories with a flash of white, everything in surrounding him in photonegative as he tried to clear his mind. The world faded back into colour and Stiles wished it hadn’t. Plumes of thick grey smoke and ash filled the air. Stiles felt it fill his now and burn at his lungs, making him cough and gasp breathlessly. The felt the heat of the blaze prickle his skin, watching as someone ran down the hallway, long dark curls bouncing behind her.

Everything seemed to be in slow-motion as he watched the roaring orange glow consumed the air around him, a large silver door coming into focus. Black numbers – 456B – were stamped onto it.

Tendril-like flames flickered as they devoured everything, lashing out from under the door.

Stiles watched as Melissa reached for the handle, crying out in pain as she reared back and looked down at her burnt palm. She threw herself against the door, shoving her shoulder into the metal and lashing out with her hands and her feet, trying to break it down.

The image dissolved behind smoke, darkening at the edges and shrivelling like paper set on fire. A dark door slammed shut, jolting Stiles from her mine.

Stiles jerked his arm away, pressing himself up against the car door and trying to put as much distance between him and Melissa as he could.

“Oh, Stiles, I’m sorry. When we switch cars again, I’ll find something to help ease your stomach,” she said, completely oblivious to what Stiles had done—they always were.

She turned her attention back to the steering wheel, slowly pulling away from the curb and driving on down the endless stretch of road.

Stiles turned his face away, trying to steady his breathing. He rested his forehead against the cool glass, feeling the pounding ache dull slightly as exhaustion began to edge its way in.

“You know,” Melissa said after a while. “You’re braver than you think you are. You were brave to take those pills, to trust me. I knew you were more than the quiet boy in the Infirmary.”

 _I’m not brave_ , Stiles thought, his voice failing him. Tears blurred his vision as he turned away from her. _I’m not brave_.

 

 

There are a thousand ways to tell if someone is lying to you. You don’t need to be able to see into their minds to catch all the little signs of discomfort and insecurity. They’ll glance away, add too many details, their voice will pitch, their pupils dilate, or they’ll answer a question with another question. Stiles had learnt all of his from his dad.

But Melissa had no tells. She told him things that seemed impossible and Stiles didn’t want to believe her, not until she tuned into a radio station and the solemn vice bled through the speakers.

“ _The president has reportedly refused an invitation from Britain’s prime minister to discuss possible relief measures for the world economic crisis and how to pump life back into the sagging global stock markets. When asked to explain his decision, the president cited the United Kingdom’s role in the UN’s economic sanction against the United States_.”

The man’s voice cut in and out as the radio crackled.

The radio cut out. Melissa let out a frustrated sigh as she reached across and began to tune it again. Another voice cut through the static, deep and raspy.

“ _In accordance with New Order 15, President Raeken issued an arrest warrant for all persons involved with this dangerous activity_.”

“Raeken?” Stiles repeated, his brow furrowed in confusion. He glanced at Melissa. “He’s still the president?”

Raeken had only just been elected president when the first case of IAAN appeared, but Sties couldn’t remember anything about him other than his light brown hair and grey eyes. And even then, he only knew that because of the posters of his son, Theo, that were strung up all over camp as proof that we, too, could be reformed—cured.

“He granted himself a term extension until the Psi situation is, and I quote, ‘resolved so as to make sure the United States is safe from any telekinetic acts of terror or violence’,” Melissa explained, a sharp edge of irritation to her voice. “He even suspended Congress.”

Stiles frowned in confusion. “How did he manage that?”

“With his so-called wartime powers. Maybe a year or two after you were taken into the camp, some Psi kids nearly succeeded in blowing up the Capitol.”

“Nearly? What do you mean nearly?” Stiles asked.

“It means they only managed to succeed in blowing up the Senate portion of it. President Raeken’s control of the government was only meant to last until congressional elections could be held, but then the riots started when the PSFs pulled kids out of schools and put them in camps without their parents’ permission. And then, of course, the economy crashed and the country defaulted on its debt. You’d be surprised how little voice you have when you lose everything.”

“And people just let him?”

“No one _let_ him, they just couldn’t stop him,” Melissa said. “It’s chaos out here right now, Stiles. Raeken keeps trying to tighten his control, and every day more and more people are rioting and breaking whatever laws we have left just to get food on the table.”

“My dad was killed in a riot,” a strange voice started.

They both jumped, startled by Matt as the boy straightened in his seat.

Stiles turned to look at him.

He looked to be no more than a year older than Stiles, with a round face and hazy blue eyes. His curly brown hair was short and tousled by sleep. He was slim but surprisingly built, the sleeves of his bright green uniform clinging to his firm biceps.

Stiles felt uneasy. He couldn’t explain why, but there was something about the teen that set him on edge; something that just felt wrong.

“People in our neighbourhood robbed his store,” Matt continued. “He couldn’t defend himself.”

“How are you feeling?” Melissa asked, her voice soft and sweet.

Matt shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

“There’s a water bottle in the back for you if you want. We’ll be stopping in an hour to swap cars again.”

“Where are we going?” Stiles asked.

“We’re meeting a friend in Marlinton, West Virginia,” she said. “He’ll have a change of clothes and identification papers for both of you. We’re almost there.”

Stiles felt Matt’s eyes settle on him, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he felt his body temperature rise. It felt as if Matt’s glare was burning holes in the back of his neck, a tingling ache rattling in the base of his brain. He tried not to turn around, tried to ignore the boy in the backseat.

“Where are we going after that?” Stiles asked, trying to ignore the boy in the back seat.

“We’re going to regroup with the League at the southern headquarters. After we get there, you can decide whether you want to stay or not. I know you’ve both been through a lot, so you don’t have to make you decision now. Just know you’ll be safe if you stay with me.”

Stiles felt a strange sense of hope blossom in his chest; the thought of choosing his own fate sending a wave of joy through him.

Matt narrowed his eyes on Stiles.

Stiles felt the tingling in the back of his mind, like a hand reaching out to caress it.

“I want to go where I can do what I couldn’t do in Thurmond,” Matt said, his voice low.

Stiles felt a chill run down his spine, his skin crawling as the blood in his veins ran cold.

“I’m a lot more powerful than you’d think. You won’t need anyone after you see what I can do.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Melissa said encouragingly. She turned to look at Stiles. “What about you, Stiles? Are you willing to make a difference?”

For years, the only thought that kept Stiles sane in Thurmond was the hope that he might one day return home. But now that it was possible, it seemed like a tainted dream. He could go home, but to what? His parents wouldn’t know who he was, they’d be afraid of him; they’d call the PSFs and have him sent back to Thurmond.

He thought of the look on his mother’s face the day the PSFs had taken him away, the look of horror as she stared down at the monster before her.

He had nowhere else to go.

“Take me anywhere,” Stiles said, his voice void of any emotion as he stared out the window. “Anywhere but home.”

 

 

They reached Marlinton’s city limits at seven o’clock in the morning, just as the sun reappeared from behind the thick blanket of grey clouds. The light coloured the trees and shrubs violet and glinted off the veil of mist that gathered over the asphalt.

The car rumbled across the uneven road as they passed several highway exits barricaded with junk, broken guard rails, overturned furniture, and abandoned cars—done either by the National Guard to contain hostile towns and cities, or by the residents to keep out unwanted visitors and looters.

The road itself had been silent for hours on end, setting Stiles on edge; they were bound to run into someone sooner or later. And he was right.

A beat-up old red semitrailer rumbled towards them.

Stiles sank down in his seat, lowering himself until he disappeared beneath the dashboard and the window and trying to stay out of sight. But he did catch a glimpse of the golden swan on the numberplate.

“They’re everywhere,” Melissa said, following Stiles’ line of sight. “It’s probably a shipment to Thurmond.”

It had been the only encounter they had had on the road, but it was enough to scare Melissa. Her eyes darting from the road in front of her to the disappearing truck in her rear-view mirror. “Stiles, climb into the back and stay down.”

Stiles did as he was told. He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed into the back, still clutching the water bottle Melissa had given him earlier.

Matt watched him with glassy eyes, reaching out to steady Stiles and help him.

Stiles recoiled, trying to stay as far away as he could from the other boy. He sank into the foot hole behind the passenger-side chair, pressing his back against the door and pulling his knees up to his chest.

Matt met his gaze. A wicked grin played across his lips, making Stiles shudder.

Stiles felt an itch inside his skull as Matt tried to peer into his mind. Stiles shut his eyes tight and shook his head, trying to clear the feeling from his skull. Dread trickled down his spin, making his stomach flip and his throat tighten. He pressed his back further against the door and turned his gaze towards Melissa.

“Do you think Thurmond has noticed we’re gone?” Stiles asked, trying to ignore Matt’s piercing gaze.

“I would think so,” Melissa replied. “The PSFs don’t have the man power to launch a hunt for us though. But I’m sure they’ve put two and two together about what you are.”

“You mean, that we’re Orange?” Stiles asked. “I though they already knew and that’s why we had to leave so quickly.”

“They were on the verge of finding out,” Melissa explained. “They’ve isolated frequencies in the White Noise that can affect different Psi kids—the one they were testing was for undetected Reds and Oranges; the kids who had somehow been sorted wrong when they were first brought into camp. I don’t think they expected it to work. That’s why we had to get you two out, and fast.”

She fell silent for a moment.

“You know, I’ve been wondering,” she started. “How did you two do it? Especially you, Stiles. You were so young when you were brought into the camp. How did you get around the sorting?”

“I just—did,” Stiles said, feeling his throat tighten as he swallowed hard. “I just told the doctor who was meant to test me that I was a Green and he listened.”

“Weak,” Matt scoffed. “You probably didn’t even have to use your abilities. Me, on the other hand, I told someone to trade places with me when they started separating the Reds and Oranges and moving the out of camp. I didn’t want to go down with them, so I took one of the new Greens who was roughly my age aside and made the warden think he was me. Same for anyone who asked. One by one.”

Stiles felt his stomach coil with disgust.

Matt was so boastful and full of pride for sending another kid to his death. He had no regret, felt no guilt for what he had done.

Stiles felt a burning hot rage flood through him. He turned away from Matt, focusing on the way the daylight bled through the windows and reflected off the wavering lip of water in the bottle in his hands.

“So you can make people think they’re someone they’re not?” Melissa asked. “I thought Oranges could only command people to do something, kind of like hypnosis.”

“Nah,” Matt said. “I can do much more than that. I can make people do what I want by making them feel what I want them to feel. Like that kid I switched places with? I made him feel like it would be a good idea to pretend to be me. And anyone who questioned it, I made them feel like they were crazy for doing so. I can sort of command people to do stuff. Like if I want someone to hurt someone, I just make them feel really pissed towards the person I want them to attack.”

“Huh,” Melissa said. “Is it the same for you, Stiles?”

“No,” he rasped. _Not at all_. “I don’t throw feelings at people or make them do things; I just see things—memories.”

“Wow,” Melissa said, her voice softened by awe. “I know I keep saying this, but you two really are something amazing. I keep thinking about all the things you could do—about how much you could help us. You’re incredible. You shouldn’t have to hide.”

Stiles felt his heart sink. He turned away from her, looking over the shoulder of the passenger-side seat at the road.

Matt leant forward in his seat, reaching over and taking a soft lock of Stiles’ tousled brown hair in his hand. He twirled it around his finger.

Stiles whirled around and smacked Matt’s hand away. His dark eyes burnt with rage as he narrowed his glare on the teen. His breath caught in his throat as every muscle in his body tensed, ready to fight. _Do not touch me_ , he wanted to scream. _Don’t think I won’t break every single finger on that hand._

But his thought died away, a sickening feeling settling in his gut as a wicked grin lifted the corners of Matt’s lips. He lifted a hand and held a finger up, wagging it in a condescending gesture.

Stiles felt another wave of anger overcome him; _he_ was doing this, he was _forcing_ Stiles to feel that way, baiting him into reacting.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, his jaw tense and his glare locked on the boy.

A low, triumphant chuckle escaped Matt’s chest.

“Everything okay back there?” Melissa asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror. When neither of them answered, she said, “Just a little longer, I promise.”

Stiles turned away from Matt, curling up as much as he could in the small space as he looked out the window.

Brown, grey and white houses, and broken storefronts lined the streets. The neighbouring buildings were run down, some in ruins and others just abandoned and tagged with spray-paint. Bright FOR SALE signs stood in the front yard or taped up in the windows. Empty cars in were parked in the driveways and surrounded by piles of junk and boxes—broken furniture, old rugs, computers, and useless electronics. The front yards were covered in blankets of dying brown grass, and a rusted red tricycle laid on its side in the gutter out the front of one house they passed. The windows were smeared with black and boarded up. Yards and gutters were covered in a blanket of rotting leaves.

“What happened here?” Stiles asked, breathless.

“It’s hard to explain,” Melissa said quietly. “After the D.C. attack, the government was sent into a tailspin, one thing led to another. We couldn’t pay off our national debt, couldn’t provide money to the states, couldn’t pay benefits, and couldn’t pay government employees. Even small towns like this one didn’t escape. People lost their jobs when companies failed, and they lost their homes when they could no longer pay for them. Everyone moved to the tent cities outside of larger cities like Richmond and D.C., trying to find work. Others moved west where they think there’s more work and food, and where they think it’s safer. There’s a lot of looting and vigilantes out here.”

“What about the police?” Stiles asked, his mind wandering to thoughts of his father.

“Like I said, the government couldn’t afford to pay their salaries. They were laid off. Most of them do volunteer work now, others joined the National Guard. That’s why you need to stay close to me; if they catch you, they will kill you.”

Stiles nodded, but he wasn’t listening. He felt his chest tighten at the thought of his father being part of the National Guard, of the man turning children into camps with the same stern, composed gaze he would often wear at the police station.

They passed an elementary school, Stiles’ heart sinking into his gut. The pastel jungle gym—or what was left of it—was stained black, twisted, and bowing to the ground. A flock of birds gathered on the broken backbone of the playground, watching them as they passed. They drove past what had once been the cafeteria, the side of the building smashed in. Piles of bricks filled the opening, long tables and chairs tossed aside and charred. The building had collapsed in on itself. Painted murals were still visible beyond the yellow police tape.

“Someone planted a bomb in the cafeteria just before the first Collection,” Melissa explain. “They set it off during lunchtime.”

Stiles felt his heart ache, forcing himself not to imagine what it would have been like for the children who gathered in the hallway. He shook the thoughts from his mind.

Melissa drove on through the deserted town. She pulled into an old petrol station.

Stiles saw the other car first—the tan SUV that Melissa pulled in behind. A man leant against the side of the car, pumping it full of gas. Stiles’ brow furrowed—it didn’t seem possible; the tanks would be empty, the other pumps were twisted and broken, and the nozzles lay cast across the ground.

Melissa honked the horn as she pulled up, but the man had already seen them. A small smile quirked the corners of his lips as he waved to Melissa as she parked the car.

He was a tall man with broad shoulders, wearing a white shirt a thick black jacket. He had a lean, rectangular face, a strong jaw and a long nose. He had stern, dark brown eyes and thick dark hair that looked as if it had been combed back from his face by his fingers.

Melissa threw open her door and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and leaping into his arms.

Matt reached forward, resting his hand on the nape of Stiles’ neck and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Stiles reared back, really falling out of the car as he shoved open his door and staggered out of the car. He slammed the door shut behind him and straightened his back, drawing in deep breaths of the crisp air. The air was damp with a thin mist of rain, brightening the trees and the grass. It clung to his cheeks and his hair, soaking him through with a cook relief.

“—they found Bobby about half an hour after you left,” he heard the man say as he walked over to Melissa’s side. “They sent two units after you. Did you run into any trouble?”

“None,” Melissa replied. She glanced over his shoulder. “Where are your two?”

The man looked down and shook his head. “I couldn’t get them out.”

“Oh, Rafe,” Melissa said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” the man said. “It looks like you had more success than me. Is he alright?” he asked, nodding at Stiles.

Melissa turned to face the boy. “Oh, Rafe, this is Stiles. Stiles this is my… this is Rafael.”

Rafael held out his hand, but Stiles just stared at it. There wasn’t a knife in his hand, or a gun, or a White Noise machine, but something about the man made Stiles uneasy. Stiles’ eyes focused on the angry red marks that covered the man’s tanned skin, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his jacket. The cuff of his white shirt was stained with a spray of brown and red blood, not yet completely dry.

Rafael’s face tightened as he realised what Stiles was looking at, dropping his arm and setting his hand on the small of Melissa’s back.

“Is Dr Finstock okay?” Stiles asked.

Rafael nodded. “They’re still questioning him, but I’m sure that our eyes in Thurmond will update us if anything changes.”

Stiles looked at Melissa. “Is your name really Melissa?”

“Yes, but my surname is McCall, not Delago.”

Stiles nodded, unsure of what to say.

“Didn’t you say there were two?” Rafael asked.

On cue, Matt stepped out of the car, shutting the door with a loud thud.

“There he is,” Melissa said. “Good, we don’t have much time. We need the two of you to clean up and get changed into something less suspicious.”

Rafael turned, opening the SUV’s side door and reaching into the car. The light shifted, catching the metal of the gun that sat in the waistband of his jeans.

Stiles felt his breath hitch in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest as he instinctively took a step back.

Rafael turned, holding out a black backpack for each of them. “Here you go. It looked like there’s running water in the station, but I wouldn’t try drinking it. There’s a change of clothes and necessities in the bags. Just don’t take too long.”

Stiles hesitantly took the bag from Rafael. Matt took the other and headed into the station. Stiles took a step back, turning to follow. The heel of his shoe hit the uneven surface, his legs stumbling beneath him. He reached out in an attempt to catch himself, but Rafael was faster; he grabbed the boy’s arm and caught him before he hit the ground.

Stiles didn’t get the chance to brace himself; his mind fell into Rafael’s, the man’s memories flooded his mind like ink in water.

He found himself standing in an alleyway. He was surrounded by two brick walls that towered over him, covered in scrawls of graffiti, stretches of pipe, and thick black mould. The stench burnt his nostrils as he turned to look. Details became more vivid: the way the dull light of the streetlamp across the road reflected off the surface of the puddles of water, the way the ground sloped slightly and the two tracks that were worn down by cars that had driven over them repeatedly, and the way the cool darkness of night lingered in the air.

He saw Rafael standing over two figures who knelt in the darkness of the alleyway. Thick black hoods were hung over their heads, their hands bound behind their backs with zip ties. Their shoulders trembled and the sound of muffled sobs reached Stiles’ ears.

He watched as Rafael reached forward, yanking one of the hoods off one of the kneeling figures. She was blonde-haired girl who couldn’t have been any older than fifteen. She was dressed in a bright green uniform, the fabric darkened by the rain that soaked it through. Her eyes were bloodshot and the dull light of the streetlamp lit the glistening tears that ran down her cheeks. Her lips quivered with broken breaths. Her voice was like a distant echo, a quiet plea beneath her sobs. “Please, _please_.”

Beside her was another figure, his body sagging forward and shaking. Judging by their build, it was a boy. His arms were covered in patches of blue, black, purple and red where bruises coloured his skin. His pants were torn open on his knees, the pale skin shredded and bleeding.

Rafael reached into the small of his back, drawing his gun from the waistband of his jeans. The click of metal rang out through the alleyway as he cocked it. Stiles felt his heart skip a beat as he watched Rafael lift the gun, pointing the barrel at the girl’s head.

“No, no, no. Please. Don’t do this,” she sobbed, fear filling her bright blue eyes. “ _Please_.”

Rafael’s composure didn’t waver, his dark eyes stared at her—void of any emotion. He pulled back on the trigger.

The bullet tearing through the girl’s head, spraying blood across the alleyway.

Stiles watched helplessly as the girl’s body crumbled, falling to the ground in a lifeless tangle of limbs. Streams of red seeped across the alleyway and pooled in the puddles of dirty water.

Droplets of blood splattered the cuff of Rafael’s sleeve.

He didn’t even bother to take off the hood the boy, just aimed the gun and fired.

The boy’s body jerked back, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

Rafael slid the gun into the small of his back and lifted the bodies off the ground. He hoisted them into the nearby dumpsters before turning and walking away; leaving them there in the dark, alone and forgotten.

Stiles tore himself free, regaining his balance and brushing off Melissa as she stepped forward.

“Stiles, you’ve gone pale,” Melissa said, her voice full of worry. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said dismissively, taking another step back to make sure he was out of her reach. He balled his hands into fists, struggling to stop them shaking. “Just a little woozy from the medication.”

He kept his eyes on the ground as he turned and hurried into the service station. The shattered glass crunched beneath his feet as he scurried into the corner of the shop, ducking out of sight of the door. The drinks fridges were stretched across the far wall, a couple of doors were smashed or blacked out and others were flickering. Some of the shelves had toppled over, spilling food across the floor. Packets of potato chips had been scattered across the floor, trampled by animals who had scavenged the store. He could hear the running water in the bathroom.

He glanced out one of the large glass windows to see Rafael talking quietly to Melissa.

Stiles swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs, his pulse pounding in his ears like a ticking clock, growing louder and louder as his time ran out.

 _I’m next_ , he thought. _I’m next_.

He dropped the backpack onto the floor, tearing open the zipper and pulling out the jacket that was folded on top of the pile of clothes. He tore the baggy teal scrubs over his head, leaving on his bright green uniform shirt. He tugged on the black hoodie and kicked off his pants until he was in his uniform shorts, quickly sorting through the rest of the bag’s contents: a small toiletries kit with a toothbrush, toothpaste and travel-sized deodorant in it, and a bottle of water.

He pulled the silver chain of the panic button over his head, dropping it into one of the pouches inside the bag. He reached out to the shelf behind him and grabbed a handful of chocolate bars, stuffing them into the bag before zipping it up.

He swung the bag onto his back and stepped out from behind the aisles, heading towards the door at the far end of the room, the door that led out to the back of the station.

He stopped short, his eyes falling on the small figure that stood by the back door. It took him a second to realise that he was staring at a child; a small boy with curly sandy-blonde hair and wide blue eyes that stared back at him. He was clutching armfuls of chips, pretzels, Twinkies, and chocolate to his chest, his hands covered by big, scuffed yellow rubber gloves.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but the boy moved quickly. He grabbed the fingertips of one of the big yellow rubber gloves and tore his hand free.

Stiles opened his mouth to shout “Wait”, but the boy was too quick. He slammed his hand against the flickering drink’s fridge, his eyes glowing yellow.

Stiles dropped to his knees as the world exploded into blinding light and sparks.


	4. Chapter 4

He winced as he blinked the blinding light out of his eyes, ears ringing.

He lifted his head in time to see the boy disappear through the back door, spilling packets of chips and pretzels as he ran.

“Wait,” Stiles rasped.

He scrambled to his feet and chased after the boy. He heard Melissa shout out to him as he shoved open the door to the store room and ran out the back exit and into the drizzling rain.

The boy was already across the parking lot, his little legs pumping beneath him as he ran. Stiles saw him trip and fall.

Stiles sprinted over to his side, but the boy recovered quickly, scrambling to his feet and collecting the packets of food before running into the trees.

“Wait!” Stiles shouted after him as he followed the boy into the thick growth of trees.

The boy sprinted through the dense growth of trees, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick trunks. He sprung over the fallen logs and broken branches, his nimble legs pushing him forward. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet, scratching at the pale flesh exposed by the boy’s baggy shorts. He tried to keep himself upright, struggling not to stumble or trip as he sprinted away from the service station.

Stiles followed after him, his blood pounding in his ears. He felt his chest tighten, his lungs burning as clearing pain flooded his protesting limbs.

“Stiles!”

Matt’s voice rang out through the trees.

Stiles’ blood ran cold. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body wouldn’t move. His feet stumbled beneath him as he stopped and turned to look over his shoulder.

Matt stood at the edge of the trees, his silhouette lit by the dreary light of day. He was close enough that Stiles could see the way his face was flushed red and the droplets of water from the shower lingered in the mess of his wet hair. He turned his head, his eyes scanning the shadows as he called out, “Stiles!”

Stiles’ legs pedalled beneath him as he staggered backwards. He turned, opening his mouth to tell the boy to run. His words caught in his throat when he saw the kid was already gone, sprinting into the trees ahead of him.

Stiles followed, vaulting over a fallen tree and running after the boy. He burst through the trees and into the open air. He blinked against the thin sheet of falling rain, watching as the blonde boy ran down the abandoned street.

The houses around them were left to decay: windows boarded up, white picket fences broken, bowing and flaking paint. The wooden panelling that covered the houses rippled, damaged by water and chipping paint.

The boy ran towards a house with a green roof.

Stiles followed after him, but instead of turning into the house, the boy kept running.

He ran straight to a blue Jeep parked on the curb. He slammed into the side panel of the Jeep, hauling oven the door and scrambling into the car. He dropped the bags of food and pulled the door shut, slamming his hand down on the lock just as Stiles reached him.

“Please,” Stiles gasped between broken breaths.

He caught a glimpse of his reflecting in the tinted windows, his hair wild and his eyes wide and bloodshot. The light shifted and he could see the look of fear on the young boy’s face as he looked out the window.

Stiles’ heart sank.

Matt’s voice rang out through the air.

Stiles sprinted around to the other side of the Jeep, putting the car between him and the trees. He looked through the Jeep windows, watching the trees for movement.

He turned to look at the boy again.

“ _Please_ ,” he rasped, desperation straining his voice.

The boy just stared at him, his sapphire-blue eyes unreadable.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, his body sagging forward. He braced his weight against his forearms, slouching against the door as he heaved in heavy breaths.

The voices drew closer, footsteps thundering through the undergrowth and twigs breaking beneath their boots.

 _Run_ , his mind screamed at him.

“Stiles!” Mellissa’s voice rang out.

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. His head jerked up. He looked through the Jeep’s windows to see her emerge from the trees, her dark hair billowing in the wind.

“Stiles, where are you?”

Rafael was right behind her, his gun in his hand.

Stiles felt his gut twist with fear, his heart leaping into his throat. His eyes drifted to the boy in the Jeep, his small face twisted in panic as he looked from Stiles to Melissa and Rafael.

Stiles couldn’t do it; he couldn’t put this boy’s life at risk.

He looked over his shoulder at the houses, his mind spinning as he tried to work out a plan.

He turned back to the Jeep as the boy turned to look at him.

“Stay down,” he whispered.

The boy’s brow furrowed as he watched Stiles with confusion.

Stiles pushed himself away from the Jeep, glancing out the window one last time before turning to run towards the house with the green roof.

He felt someone grab his backpack, hauling him backwards. He fell back into the Jeep, hitting his head on the arm rest of the opposite door as the boy shut the door and locked it.

The boy grabbed the front of Stiles’ shirt and pulling him towards the back of the Jeep.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles whispered, flowing the boy into the back. He crouched behind the seat, leaning back against it as he tried to clear the dots from his vision.

The back of the Jeep was clear except for a few grey-lidded plastic tubs and a stack of newspapers that were tied together with a shoelace. The boy shoved the packets of chips, pretzels and Twinkies into one of the grey tubs before reaching under one of the seats.

“What’s your name?” Stiles asked, keeping his voice low.

The boy didn’t answer him.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said softly, “you can talk to me.”

The boy pulled a paint-splattered grey blanket from under the back seat, unfurling it and draping it over Stiles. He held his finger to his lips, motioning for Stiles to stay quiet as the boy covered his head with the blanket.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but his words caught in his throat.

Someone was coming – no, more than one person. Snippets of their conversation drifted closer and the sound of their feet hitting the pavement drew near.

“—I swear to God, it was _her_ , Derek!” The voice was deep, but it didn’t sound like an adult. The passenger-side door opened, the voice louder as the person stood there for a moment, talking to their friend. “And, look, I told you he’d beat us back. Isaac, did you run into trouble?”

The boy – Isaac – climbed over the seats and sat down, not saying anything.

The other car door opened and the other person – Derek – let out a sigh.

“Thank God,” he said. His voice was deep and husky, softened by a southern drawl. “Come on, get in. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want to stay long enough to find out. The skip tracers are bad enough—”

“Why won’t you admit it was her?” the other boy asked, climbing into the car.

“Because we ditched her in Ohio, that’s why.”

“It was Kate. I saw her with my own eyes.”

“Yeah, well, you’re blind,” Derek replied.

Above the sound of Derek’s voice and the blood pounding in Stiles’ ears, he heard a familiar voice call out his name.

“Stiles! _Stiles!_ ”

Melissa.

Stiles held his hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out.

“What the hell?” the other boy uttered. “Is that—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence; there was a thundering bang as a gunshot rang out. It flew by—a warning shot, but the second one hit the metal siding of the Jeep.

“Stop!” Melissa cried out. “Don’t shoot!”

“Derek!”

“I know, I know,” he said, shoving his keys into the ignition. “Isaac, seatbelt!”

The engine sputtered to life and Stiles was thrown forward as the car took off, wheels spinning against the gravel.

Stiles tried to brace himself as he was tossed about in the back of the car. With every thundering gunshot, he heard a quiet whimper from the back seat. He pulled his knees up to his chest, hunching over himself as he tried to sink into the darkness.

After a few minutes everything quietened down as they left the gunshots and shouting far behind them.

Derek was the first to speak, his deep voice breaking the tense silence in the car.

“Isaac, did something happen at the gas station?” Derek asked, is voice filled with urgency, but not panic.

Isaac didn’t get a chance to reply, their other friend cut into the silence, “Oh my God, _more_ skip tracers? Was there a convention or something? You do realise what would’ve happened if they had caught us, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “They were shooting at us! _With guns_!”

Somewhere to Stiles’ right, he heard Isaac giggle.

“Well I’m glad you find this so amusing,” the other boy said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Do you know what happens when you get shot, Isaac? The bullet rips through you—”

“Boyd!” Derek snapped, making them all jump. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. “Will you calm down? We’re okay. That was a lot closer than I would’ve liked, but still. We’ll just have to make better mistakes tomorrow, right, Isaac?”

There was a disgruntled groan from the front seat as Boyd slumped back against the chair.

“I’m sorry about before, Isaac,” Derek continued, his voice soft. “Next time, I’ll come with you to get food, alright? You’re not hurt, are you?”

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the back of the chair and sinking into the darkness. The rumble of the tyres against the road numbed Stiles’ mind. He heard fragments of their conversation.

“—a number of things,” Derek was saying. “But let’s focus on finding East River first.”

Something struck Stiles; they were kids, kids who had unwittingly put their lives at risk for him.

He had to get away; if he got out now, they’d be able to get away from Melissa and Rafael and so would he.

He pushed the blanket off his head, shuffling slightly to shrug the straps of his backpack onto his shoulders and shifting to peer into the front of the Jeep.

The boy driving the car – Derek – looked to be in his late teens. He had a square jaw that was darkened by stubble. He wore an old black leather jacket, the shoulders darker from where the rain had soaked him. He ran his hand through his thick, dark hair, trying to tame the mess that was tousled by the wind. His fingers raked his hair away from his face, exposing his pale green eyes.

In the seat beside him sat the kid they called Boyd. He had dark skin and wore a faded grey knitted sweater. His dark hair had been shaved off, a look that complimented his stern-set jaw and the fierce gaze his shot at Derek as they talked.

“Did it sound like they were looking for someone?” Derek asked.

“It sounded like _they were shooting at us_ ,” Boyd retorted.

Stiles saw Derek roll his eyes. “The woman, she kept shouting something... ‘Stiles’.”

“What the hell is a ‘Stiles’?” Boyd asked.

“I’m Stiles.”

The car jerked as Derek and Boyd spun to look at him, the wheel spinning in Derek’s hands.

Isaac shot Stiles an exasperated look

“Derek!” Boyd snapped. “Eyes on the road!”

Derek spun back forward and slammed on the breaks. Isaac and Boyd jerked forward, their seatbelts catching them.

Stiles didn’t get the chance to hold on. He was hurled into the space between the seats, landing on the floor of the Jeep with a grunt.

Derek pulled over to the side of the road and parked the car before turning to look at Stiles again.

Stiles pushed himself up onto his elbows, straightening his back as he looked up.

The two boys in the front seats looked back at him, wearing two very different expressions. Derek was agasp; his aventurine irises caught the light and shifting from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – and wide with shock. His jaw hung open. His brow furrowed slightly as if he was trying to comprehend what he was looking at.

Boyd, on the other hand, glared at him with burning rage, his brown eyes so dark they seemed back.

Stiles felt the icy chill of panic trickle down his spine, swallowing hard as he looked at the teen. For a moment, he was scared that Boyd was a Red; the way he stared at Stiles was as if he was willing Stiles to burst into flames and burn to a crisp.

Stiles scrambled off the carpet and bolted for the door. His hands shook as he pulled at the handle, but it didn’t budge.

“ _Isaac_!” Derek said warningly, turning to look from Stiles to Isaac.

Isaac just smiled sweetly, his rubber gloves squeaking as he folded his hands in his lap and blinked up at Derek innocently.

“We agreed— _no strays_ ,” the other boy added. “That’s why we didn’t take the kittens.”

“For the love of…” Derek slumped back in his chair, pressing his face into his hands. “What were we going to do with a box of abandoned kittens?”

“Maybe if that black heart of yours hadn’t been so willing to leave them there to starve, we could have found them new, loving homes.”

Derek shook his head, looking at Boyd with a look of pure amazement. “You’re never going to get over those cats, are you?”

“They were innocent, defenceless kittens and you left them outside someone’s mailbox! A _mailbox_ , Derek!”

“Boyd,” Derek groaned. “Come _on_.”

Boyd levelled Derek with a withering stare.

Stiles was shocked that they had forgotten he was there. He thumped his hand against the window. “Can you _please_ unlock the door?”

That shut them up.

Derek turned to look at him, his expression different than before; he looked serious, not unhappy or suspicious. “Are you the one they’re looking for?”

“Stiles,” Boyd reminded him.

Derek waved his hand. “Right. Stiles.”

“Just unlock the door, please,” Stiles begged, his voice strained as he fought back the tears that pricked his eyes. “I made a mistake. You have to let me go before they catch up.”

“Before who catches up? Skip tracers?” Derek asked. His eyes dropped, taking in Stiles’ bright green uniform shirt and the mud-stained canvas shoes with scrawls of black across the toes – Stiles’ Psi number. The colour faded from Derek’s face as his eyes widened in horror. “Did you come from a camp?”

Stiles felt all eyes settle on him. He turned, meeting Derek’s gaze, and nodded. “The Children’s League got me out.”

“And you ran away from them?” Derek pressed. He looked over his shoulder at Isaac for confirmation.

The younger boy nodded.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Boyd interrupted. “You heard him—unlock the stupid door. We already have PSFs and skip tracers after us; we don’t need to add the League to that list! They probably think we took him, and if they put in the call that there is a group of freaks driving around in a beat-up blue Jeep—”

Derek held up a finger warningly. “Hey. Don’t talk about Roscoe like that.”

“Oh, _excuse me_ for hurting the feelings of a twenty-year-old Jeep,” Boyd drolled.

“He’s right,” Stiles said, drawing their attention back to the situation at hand. “I’m sorry, please—I don’t want trouble.”

“You want to go back to them?” Derek asked, a strange tension in his voice as he turned to look at Stiles. His mouth was set in a grim line. “Listen, I know it’s none of my business, Green, but you deserve to know that whatever lies they’ve fed you probably aren’t true. They aren’t our angel network. They have their own agenda, and if they plucked you out of a camp, then that means they have a plan for you.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Stiles countered.

“Okay,” Derek said, his voice calm again. “Then why are you in such a hurry to get back?”

Stiles swallowed hard, feeling something bubble in his throat. There was nothing accusing or suspicious in his question, but there was something in the way he looked at Stiles, the glimmer of pity in his pale eyes, that made Stiles flush with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

“I’m not, but I can’t—I didn’t mean to drag you into this—I don’t want—I just—” Stiles stammered, dropping his gaze and shaking his head.

Stiles saw a flash of movement out the corner of his eye as Isaac reached out for him. He jerked back from the boy’s touch, his eyes wide with panic.

A pained expression passed across the boy’s face, staying long enough for Stiles to feel guilty about it.

But they didn’t know what kind of monster they had saved—if he had, he would have never opened the door.

“Do you want to go back to them?”

Stiles looked up, meeting Derek’s gaze. The older boy trapped him there, his aventurine eyes freezing Stiles in place.

“No,” Stiles said truthfully. “I don’t.”

Derek didn’t say anything, he just nodded, turned in his seat and shifted the Jeep out of park. The car rolled forward as he glanced in his mirror quickly before pulling back out onto the road.

“Derek, don’t you dare,” Boyd said warningly. “If the League comes after us…”

“It’s okay,” Derek said reassuringly. “We’re just taking him to the nearest bus stop.”

Stiles blinked in surprise. “You don’t have to.”

Derek waved him off. “It’s the least we could do. Sorry we can’t do more. We just can’t risk it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Boyd turned to look at Derek, tilting his head questioningly. “So, tell me, why aren’t we taking him to one of the train stations, which are closer?”

When Stiles glanced up, he saw Derek studying him in the rear-view mirror, his dark brows drawn together thoughtfully. “Remind me again—Stiles, right?”

Stiles nodded.

“You’ve probably caught on by now, but I’m Derek. The lovely lad behind me is Isaac.”

Stiles turned to look at the youngest boy. Isaac smiled shyly.

“And the grumpy guts next to me is Boyd,” Derek introduced.

Isaac unbuckled his seatbelt, climbing forward through the middle of the seats. His bright blue eyes were wide as he stared out the windscreen.

“Isaac?” Derek called. “What’s wrong?”

The boy’s lips opened, quivering as he fought to find the words. His hand shook as he pointed out the window.

Stiles turned, following the boy’s hand to see what he was pointing at. His heart lurched, his breath falling short of his lips.

The tan SUV sped down the road towards them, drawing closer and closer.

He saw a glint of silver out one of the windows.

“Get down!” Derek shouted.

Isaac pulled Isaac back into the back seat and arched over him as the thundering bang of the gunshot rang out.

The bullet shattered the windscreen sending spiderwebbing cracks radiating from the hole it tore through the glass.

“Holy shi—” Derek slammed his foot down on the pedal, throwing the car forward. The car protested, struggling to gain speed. Roscoe began to rattle and shake as Derek coaxed it to go faster.

Stiles braced himself the best he could, pushing himself off Isaac and helping guide the boy back into his seat.

Isaac reached for his seatbelt, his tiny gloved hands shaking as he fought to push the buckle into place.

Stiles carefully took the belt from the boy, waiting until it clicked into place before diving into his seat. He turned to look out the shattered rear window. Rafael’s SUV was gone.

Instead, the car behind them was a bright red pickup truck.

A man leant out the passenger window, a black rifle in his hand.

“I told you!” Boyd shouted. “I told you they were skip tracers!”

“Yes, you were right!” Derek yelled back. “But saying ‘I told you so’ isn’t helping right now!”

Derek spun the wheel and the Jeep swung to the left just as the man in the truck fired.

The bullet missed, but the second shot didn’t; it hit the Jeep’s bumper, the sound making all of them flinch.

Stiles glanced across at Isaac.

The boy was doubled over, the hood of his oversized sweatshirt pulled over his head and his chest pressed to his knees. His entire body was shaking.

Stiles reached across, setting a hand on the small boy’s back, trying to reassure him and keep him down.

There was another thundering crash, but it wasn’t a gunshot.

Stiles looked out the back window to see the red truck swerved to the side, the driver wrestling with the wheel to keep the car straight.

The other car came into view, swerving into the side of the truck again.

“I told you it was her!” Boyd shrieked. “It’s Kate.”

“Kate’s blonde,” Derek retorted. “And who’s the guy with her? Her boyfriend?”

“They’re League,” Stiles said, his voice unheard as it was drowned out by the sound of buckling metal and shattering glass as he watched the SUV slam into the side of the truck.

The truck pulled away from the SUV, swerving across the lanes as it spun out and slid off the shoulder of the highway.

“That’s one,” Derek said, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

Stiles turned, looking out the shattered back window. He expected to see Rafael leaning out the window with his silver gun in his hand, but what he saw made his heart stop. Rafael was behind the wheel, his cold gaze locked on the black Jeep while Melissa leant out the window with a rifle steady in her hands.

Stiles spun back around, reaching over to grab Derek’s shoulder.

“Please, just let me go,” Stiles said, eyes wide with panic. “I’ll go back with them. No one has to get hurt.”

“Pull over and let him out,” Boyd insisted.

“Will both of you shut up?” Derek snapped as he spun the wheel. The Jeep swerved across the road as he fought against the lashing winds and heavy rain. He rolled down his window, holding his hand outside the car. His eyes glowed blue for a second.

“Do something!” Boyd shouted, grabbing the steering wheel to steady it.

“I’m trying!” Derek said. “I can’t concentrate!”

 _He’s trying to use his powers_ , Stiles realised.

Rain splattered the windows, blurring the shapes of the trees around them. Derek’s eyes were unfocused and his face twisted in thought as he tried to control his abilities. He didn’t turn on the wipers. If he had, he might have noticed the car that came blazing down the highway.

The screech of the horn shook Derek from his trance. His eyes flew open wide as he jerked the wheel to the side, the Jeep swerving back into the right lane. He swore under his breath as he narrowly missed a head-on collision with the silver sedan.

Stiles and Isaac spun in their seats, watching as the SUV swerved into the right lane behind them.

Rafael recovered quickly, planting his foot down on the accelerator as the car sped up to catch them.

“Derek,” Stiles begged. “Please, just pull over. I won’t let them do anything to you.”

 _I don’t want to go back_ , his mind cried, bringing up the images of the blonde girl’s terrified face as Rafael pointed the gun at her. _I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to—_

“Green!” Derek shouted over the pouring rain, his voice cutting through Stiles’ thoughts. “Can you drive?”

“No.”

“Can you see better than Boyd?” Derek asked.

“Maybe.”

“Great,” he said, reaching back for Stiles’ arm. “Come on up to the captain’s seat.”

Another bullet hit the side of the van, making Isaac jump. But Derek seemed unphased.

“It’s just like riding a bike,” he said reassuringly. “The right pedal is the gas; the left is the break. Use the wheel to steer. That’s all there is to it. Easy, right?”

He didn’t wait for Stiles to answer. He swerved into the right lane and slammed his foot on the break. The SUV flew past them. Derek didn’t hesitate, he unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of his seat, grabbing Stiles’ sleeve and pulling him into the driver’s seat.

Stiles tightened his grip around the wheel, gripping the warm leather and watching as Derek clambered in the back.

“Why can’t he drive?” Stiles asked, nodding towards Boyd.

“Because he can’t see five feet in front of himself. Trust me, darlin’, you don’t want him driving. Boyd, come on,” he called, climbing further into the back. “Isaac, keep your head down, okay, buddy?”

Stiles looked out the rain-splattered window, watching as the blurred silhouette of the SUV spun around and sped towards them. The pale light of the car’s headlights lit the droplets of water that covered the glass, making them shimmer like diamonds.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, trying to steady his heart as it hammered against his ribs.

“Now, _hit the gas_ ,” Derek shouted.

Stiles planted his foot down on the pedal.

The car lurched forward, wheels screeching against the wet asphalt.

Stiles tightened his grip, his knuckled threatening to break through his pale skin and the leather creaking beneath his hands. He clenched his jaw, feeling his throat tighten as he swallowed hard.

“Faster,” Derek encouraged.

Stiles watched as the speedometer rose; sixty—seventy—eighty—eighty-five.

The headlights of the SUV glared across the windscreen.

Stiles felt anxiety bubble in his stomach. The steering wheel shook in his grip and the Jeep rumbled as it sped down the road.

“Keep going,” Derek insisted, watching as the SUV drew closer.

“Der, this is insane!” Boyd objected.

There was a thundering bang as the Jeep jerked to the side.

Stiles let out a surprised gasp as he wrestled with the wheel.

“What was that?”

“They blew out the wheel!” Boyd answered.

“Straighten out,” Derek encouraged. “Keep going.”

The car tilted backwards, leaving a trail of sparks behind them.

The SUV drove by them, swiftly spinning around to follow them.

Derek shoved open the bac doors, grabbing a hold of the doorframe as he leant out.

Boyd swore under his breath as he reached out to grab the waistband of Derek’s jeans, digging his heels in to hold onto Derek.

“No matter what happens, keep going,” Derek shouted over the howling winds. He held a hand out in front of himself, his eyes lighting up blue.

The wind picked up, hurling broken branches and leaves at the SUV behind them.

It didn’t deter Rafael; if anything, it made him more pissed. Stiles could see the burning rage that dwelled in his dark eyes as he glanced into the rear-view mirror.

Derek let go of the doorframe, holding both of his hands out in front of himself. His body tensed for a moment before he swiped his arms to the side.

There was a thundering crash as an uprooted tree tore through the dense foliage and slammed across the road.

Stiles’ heart lurched at the sound of shattering glass and buckling metal. He looked in the side mirror, his heart stopping as he watched Rafael wrench the wheel to the side, overcorrecting the car and rolling the SUV onto its side with a deafening crash.

“Oh my God,” Stiles gasped. He looked back into the rear-view mirror, watching as the two older boys collapsed back inside the car.

“Do you get it now?” Boyd growled, slouching back against the wall of the Jeep. “They weren’t going to stop.”

Derek pulled the back doors shut before climbing into the passenger’s seat. His dark hair was a tousled mess and a mist of rain and beads of sweat clung to his tan skin.

“Okay, Green,” he said, keeping his voice calm and steady. “They blew out the back tyre, so you’re driving on the rim. Just keep going straight and start to slow down. Turn off at the next exit and pull over when you can, alright?”

Stiles nodded, his eyes focused on the road as he blinked back the hot tears that blurred his vision. He clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Derek shift in his seat, turning to look into the back of the Jeep. “Are you alright, Isaac?”

The boy gave him two thumbs up, his hands trembling slightly but the sight of the two yellow gloved hands made Derek smile.

“I’m okay too, thanks for asking,” Boyd grumbled, dragging himself into the back seat next to Isaac. He leant forward and smacked Derek over the back of the head. “Are you out of your freaking mind? Do you know what happens to a body when it’s thrown out of a car at high velocity?”

“No,” Derek interrupted, his voice steady and his firm glare focused on the teen. “But I imagine it isn’t pretty, nor is it appropriate for an eleven-year-old’s ears.”

Stiles glanced back in the mirror at the young blonde boy. _He’s only eleven years old?_

“So you’ll put him in the line of fire, but he can’t hear a scary story?” Boyd scoffed.

Derek rolled his eyes and turned back in his seat. He clenched his fists and grimaced as he tried to hide his pain.

Stiles snuck a glance at him. There was a gash above his eye where a branch had torn through his skin. A stream of blood trickled down the side of his face, dripping from his chin and seeping into the dark fabric of his sweatshirt.

Stiles tore his gaze away from the boy, focusing his eyes on the glimpse of a green highway sign he saw though the haze of rain. He followed the curve of the ramp, easing his foot off the accelerator and letting the Jeep roll to a stop on the edge of the branching road.

Derek reached over and put the parking brake on.

“You did good,” he said softly.

Stiles slammed his fist into Derek’s arm. “That was nothing like riding a bike, you asshole!”

Derek stared at him, his pale eyes wide with shock.

Isaac broke the silence, the sweet sound of his laughter filling the air. A smile crept its way onto Derek’s lips as he let out a small chuckle, the soft sound stirring something inside of Stiles.

“Oh yeah,” Derek said with a bright smile, opening his door. “You’re going to fit in just fine.”

 

 

The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle by the time Derek set to work changing the tyre.

Stiles stayed where he was behind the wheel, partly because he didn’t know where to go and partly because he wasn’t ready to move. His heart was still pounding in his chest and he had to focus on keeping his breathing steady. His hands still gripped the wheel tightly.

Isaac followed Derek to the back of the car, but Stiles watched as Boyd shoved his door open and headed in the opposite direction. He made his way over to the sign that pointed out the direction of Monongahela National Forest. He sat down on the curb and pulled a small paperback book from his back pocket.

Stiles squinted, trying to work out what he was reading, but half the cover had been torn off and the other half was hidden beneath his hand.

Stiles looked at the signs. He had pulled over into Salty Fork, West Virginia, onto a highway that looked as if it were a road in the middle of nowhere.

He let out a heavy sigh, prying his hands away from the wheel. He climbed into the back of the Jeep. His black backpack had been cast aside in the back of the car, covered by a few sheets of newspaper and an empty bottle of Windex.

Stiles caught a glimpse of the faded text on the newspaper—articles that referred to Psi kids as ‘mutant time bombs’.

He tossed the papers aside in disgust and pulled his backpack onto the seat beside him. He opened the bag and looked through the change of clothes Rafael had packed; a grey tee-shirt, jeans, and a belt.

He’d change later, he decided; right now, he had to get as far away from the others as he could. The more distance he put between himself and them, the safer they’d be.

He climbed out the side door of the Jeep, freezing as he took in the sight of the torn sky-blue paint and the puncturing holes that covered the side of the Jeep. Stiles reached out, gently brushing his fingers against the silver metal of the hole left by a bullet. He stepped back, making his way around the back of the van.

Isaac stood beside Derek, holding onto the spare tyre with everything he had while Derek jacked up the Jeep. The older boy crouched by the blown tyre, moving his hand in slow circles as he undid the nuts.

 _Blue_ , Stiles realised. Derek was a Blue. He had seen the boy uproot a huge tree and hurl it across the road, but it didn’t sink in until he saw the shimmer of azure that coloured the boy’s eyes as the nuts spun at his command. The small silver bolts gathered in a pile beside him.

Stiles shrugged the bag further up onto his shoulder and turned on his heel. He began to walk away, the gravel crunching beneath his feet.

He felt a sharp tug at the back of his jacket, as if someone had reached out to grab him.

He froze.

“Where are you going?” Derek called after him.

“I’ve caused you enough trouble,” Stiles answered, not looking back at them. “I don’t want any of you getting hurt because of me.”

He tried to take another step forward but was stopped by the same tug.

“Just let me go!” he snapped as he spun on his heels. His heart stopped when he realised no one standing there.

He looked at where Derek stood at the back of the Jeep, the knees of his jeans smeared with dirt and mud as he held out a hand to stop Stiles from leaving. The glimmer of blue faded from his eyes.

“If you want to go, then fine, but before you go, take out that shirt you were going to change into,” Derek said, nodding towards the black backpack on Stiles’ shoulder.

“I’m not changing out here,” Stiles objected.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Really? You’ve got League agents on your tail and they’re bound to catch up with you in a matter of hours, and you’re worried about modesty? Priorities, Green. Take out the shirt.”

Stiles watched him for a moment but did as he was told. He shrugged his bag off his shoulder, letting it drop to the ground as he pulled the grey shirt out and held it up for Derek to see.

“Feel around the collar, you’ll find a bump,” Derek said.

Stiles sighed reluctantly and began to run his fingers along the stitching. His heart skipped a beat as his thumb brushed across the bump, no bigger than a pea.

“It’s a tracker,” Derek explained. “Boyd has a sewing kit under the front seat. If you’re going to wear those clothes – and I’d suggest you do since the camp uniform isn’t exactly subtle – then you’re going to have to cut it out.” He turned his attention back to the type, taking it from Isaac and rolling it into place. “And check the pants and the sweater too—I wouldn’t put it past them to use more than one.”

Stiles grabbed his bag, tracking back over to the car. He pulled open the passenger side door, reaching under the seat for the sewing it. It was in a small plastic case and consisted of nothing more than two spools of cotton, a small pair of scissors, and a scrap piece of fabric with a couple of needles woven into it to secure them. Stiles picked out the scissors and cut a small hole in the collar of the shirt, pulling out the small tracking device.

He did as Derek suggested and checked the rest of his clothes, feeing his gut twist as he found another on the waistband of his pants, one in the hem of his jacket, one on the underside of the belt buckle, and one in the lining of the backpack.

He packed his bag again, put the sewing kit away and gathered the trackers in his hand. As he stepped around the back of the Jeep, Derek rose to his feet again, holding out his hand.

“Here,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of them.”

Stiles’ hand trembled as he let the trackers fall into the pal of Derek’s outstretched hand.

Derek dropped them on the ground and crushed them beneath the heel of his scuffed boot.

Stiles shook his head, trying to clear the mess of thoughts that were tangled in his mind. “I don’t understand,” he uttered.

Derek’s expression softened as he reached out for Stiles.

Stiles reared back, his heart hammering against his ribs. He watched as Derek’s hand dropped between them, his stomach twisting with anxiety and guilt as he lifted his gaze o meet Derek’s.

“They tell you a lot of lies in the Children’s League, the biggest is that you’re free,” he said, something darkening behind his aventurine eyes. “They’ll talk about love and respect and family, but I don’t know any family that puts a tracking device on someone and then sends them out to be shot or blown up.”

He wiped his greasy hands on an old rag before leaning in through the passenger door and tossing it into the back of the Jeep. He glanced down the road to where Boyd sat on the curb. He whistled, getting the boy’s attention.

Stiles heard Isaac pull open the other door and climb back into his seat.

Derek turned his gaze back to Stiles, his pale eyes full of sympathy as he said, “Look, they all wear trackers. I’m sure another League agent will be along in a while to help them. You can go back if you want, or we can take you to a bus station like I said we would. Or you could come with us—to East River.”

“Nice, Derek,” Boyd scoffed. “Want to tell him your shoe size and your favourite animal while you’re at it?”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“East River?” Stiles asked.

Derek was the one who answered. “We first heard about East River from some ids in out camp. Supposedly—and I mean _supposedly_ —it’s a place where any kids on the outside can go and live together. The Slip Kid runs the show, and he can get you in touch with your family without PSFs finding out about it. There’s food and a place to sleep—and, well, you get the picture. The problem is finding it. We think it’s somewhere in this area, thanks to a few fairly helpful Blues we ran across in Ohio. It’s the kind of thing that…”

“If you’re in the know, you’re not supposed to talk about it,” I finished.

“I guess it’s their way of keeping the kids safe,” Derek said. “The less people who know about it, the better.”

“Who’s the Slip Kid?” Stiles asked.

Derek shrugged. “No one knows. Or, I guess, people _know_ but they don’t say. The rumours about him are incredible though. The PSFs gave him the nickname because he— _supposedly_ —slipped their custody at least four times.”

Stiles was shocked; speechless.

“Kind of puts the rest of us to shame, huh? I was feeling really bad about myself until someone told me the rumours about him. Supposedly, he’s one of them… an Orange.”

That single word froze Stiles in place, an icy chill dragging its way up his spine.

Derek said something else, but Stiles didn’t hear him over the thundering sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

The Slip Kid. Someone who could help kids get home, to parents who remembered them and wanted them. Someone who could give these kids back their lives. And possibly, one of the last Orange kids out there.

He wasn’t alone.

“Why do you need this guy’s help?” Stiles asked, struggling to find his voice. “Can’t you just go home?”

“You’re meant to be smart, Green. Use your head,” Boyd said. “We can’t go home, because the PSFs are probably watching out parents.”

Derek looked exhausted, dark bags hanging under his pale eyes. “You have to be careful out here, okay? Are you sure you want me to drop you at the bus station? Because we’d be happy to—”

“ _No_!” Boyd snapped. “We most certainly _would not_. We’ve already waisted enough time on him, and he’s the reason we have the League after us now, too.”

Stiles felt his chest ache. He was right.

Stiles wanted to find the Slip Kid as much as they did—he _needed_ to find him—but it was too dangerous. The right thing to do was to have them drop him off at the bus station. He’d have to find the Slip Kid on his own. It was the only way he could keep them safe from the League and from the monster that fought for control in his mind.

His mind drifted back to the crash, the horrific sound of crunching metal and the thought of the others being trapped in the carnage.

Stiles kept his hands by his side, trying to keep his expression blank. But something must have given him away because Derek seemed to pick up on his feelings of guilt. “It doesn’t make you a bad person, you know—to want to live your own life.”

Stiles looked from the road to Derek, feeling more confused and torn than ever.

Derek had others he needed to care for, two other kids who counted on him, who he wanted to protect.

Derek took a step back, a soft smile lifting the corners of his lips as he pulled open the side door and nodded towards the car.

Before either of them could move, Boyd reached out and slammed the door shut.

“Boyd,” Derek scolded.

“Why were you with the Children’s League?” Boyd asked bluntly, his dark eyes fixed on Stiles.

“Hey,” Derek said firmly. He turned to Stiles. “This is a don’t-ask-don’t-tell operation, Green, you don’t have to—”

“No,” Boyd interrupted, “ _you_ decided that. You and Isaac. If we’re going to be stuck with him, I want to know who this guy is and why we were chased by gun-toting lunatics trying to get him back.”

Derek raised his hands in surrender, offering Stiles an apologetic look.

Stiles swallowed hard. “I…”

He struggled to find the words, struggled to find a lie they would believe; he couldn’t tell them the truth.

“I was a runner in the Control Tower,” Stiles lied. “I saw the access codes to the camp’s computer servers that the League wants access to. I have a photographic memory, and I’m good with numbers and codes too.”

It seemed liked overkill, but they took him at his word.

“What about your friend?” Boyd pushed. “What’s his story?”

“My friend? Matt? I only met him yesterday, I don’t know his story.”

Stiles _wished_ he didn’t know his story.

Boyd slapped the side of the Jeep. “Don’t tell me you believe him, Der. We knew everyone by the time we broke out.”

 _Broke out?_ Stiles was stunned, his wide eyes darting between the two boys. “All three thousand kids?”

The boys reared back in shock.

“You had three thousand kids in your camp?” Derek asked.

“Why? How many were in your camp?”

“Three hundred, at most,” Derek answered. “Are you sure? Three _thousand_?”

“They never gave us an official number, but there were thirty kids in each cabin and at least a hundred cabins,” Stiles said. “There used to be more, but they moved all the Reds, Oranges and Yellows out of the camp.”

They all stared at him, mind blown.

“Holy crap,” Derek rasped. “What camp were you in?”

“It’s none of your business,” Stiles said, taking a step back and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not asking you where you were.”

“You’re right,” Derek said quietly. “Sorry—”

“We were in Caledonia, Ohio,” Boyd answered, ignoring the sharp look Derek gave him. “They stuck us in an abandoned elementary school. We broke out. Your turn.”

“Why? So you can turn me into the nearest PSF station?”

“Yeah, because _clearly_ three kids are going to report a sighting,” Boyd said sarcastically.

Stiles let out a sigh. “Fair enough… I was in Thurmond.”

The silence between them stretched on.

Stiles’ heart hammered against his chest. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

“Are you serious?” Derek asked, finally. “Thurmond? With the FrankenKiddies?”

“They stopped testing kids years ago,” Stiles said, feeling strangely defensive.

“No, I just—I just…” Derek stumbled over his words. “I thought it was filled up and that’s why they bussed us to Ohio.”

“How old were you when you went into camp?” Boyd asked. “You must have been young.”

“I went in the day after my tenth birthday,” Stiles said truthfully.

Derek blew out a low whistle, running his fingers through his hair.

A heavy silence settled between them as reality sank in.

“How long were you three in Caledonia?” Stiles asked hesitantly.

“Isaac was there for two years,” Boyd answered. “I was there for about a year and a half, and Derek was there for a year.”

Stiles blinked in surprise.

“But you’re what, sixteen? Seventeen?” Derek asked.

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted. The others in his cabin who had been brought in on the same day said it had been six years, Stiles wasn’t sure—one day was just like the next; time seemed to blur together. “What year is it?”

Boyd snorted and rolled his eyes. A second later, he froze. His face fell. “You’re serious?”

Stiles felt his heart ache, feeling anger, fear, regret and anxiety seep in. He should have lied, should have dodged the question. He didn’t need to be pitied by a group of strangers. They’d taken in a monster, thinking it was a mouse.

Derek’s answer was so quiet that Stiles almost missed it.

“Sixteen,” Stiles answered, doing the math in his head. But something else was bothering him. “They’re still making new camps and sending kids to them?”

“Not so much anymore,” Derek answered. “The younger set—Isaac’s age—were hit the hardest. People got scared and the birth-rate dropped off even before the government tried banning new births. Most of the kids that are still being sent to camps are like us—those that escaped detection during Collections or tried to run.”

Stiles nodded, processing what he’d been told.

“At Thurmond,” Boyd began. “Did they really—”

“I think that’s enough,” Derek interrupted. He pulled open the door again. “He’s answered your questions, we’ve answered his, and now we’ve got to hit the road while the going’s still good.”

Boyd climbed into the passenger’s seat, tossing Stiles’ bag into the back.

Stiles looked at where Isaac sat in the back seat.

The young boy gently patted the seat beside him before turning to buckle his seatbelt.

Stiles let out a deep breath and climbed into the Jeep.

Derek took his place behind the wheel.

The Jeep sputtered to life and the car rumbled as it rolled down the road.

Stiles turned his eyes to the window, watching as the falling rain left trails down the glass.

No one spoke for a long time; the only sound was the rumble of the Jeep on the road. The silence began to unsettle Derek.

He turned on the radio, switching through radio stations to find one that wasn’t the monotone voice of a news presenter. Finally, he found a radio station that was playing music.

The familiar melodies began to soothe Stiles, especially when Derek began to sing along. He listened to the sound of Derek’s deep voice, letting his eyes drift shut as sleep dragged him under.


	5. Chapter 5

Sleep never came without nightmares.

And the worst kind were the memories, the shadows that haunted him.

There were memories he knew would haunt him forever, memories he knew he’d never forget; Thurmond, the Factory, Scott.

The Factory at the back of the camp was more like a warehouse, a giant grey shed with black metal walkways that overlooked the work floor. The thick metal walls caged them in, the sheets of grey only broken by the four windows on the east and west side of the building. The windows helped let in light, but the floor was lit by the glaring white LED lights that hung overhead. In summer, when there was no ventilation or air conditioning, the windows did nothing more than make it worse; the intense sun beat down on them as they worked, the glare burning their eyes and the heat making them woozy.

The Factory itself was one large room filled with rows upon rows of workstations that ran lengthwise across the dusty concrete floors. Hundreds of kids were packed into the room, all dressed in Green uniforms.

PSFs patrolled the walkways overhead, their heavy boots rumbling the metal beneath their feet. The sound rang out across the room, a constant reminder they were there. Each guard held a rifle in their hands, their cold eyes scanning their room like predators in wait.

More PSFs would patrol the floor, stalking the rows of workstations.

Stiles would never forget that day.

He had woken up with an agonising headache. He fought his way through the day, but it felt as if he were drowning—the more he fought to keep his head above water, the worse it got. The sweltering summer heat and the bitter stench of shoe polish, leather, and sweat only made it worse. His head was light, his stomach twisting as he fought the urge to throw up.

Finally, it became too much for him.

He crumbled against the workstation, bracing his weight against the edge of the bench to stop himself from collapsing. His shoulders rose and fell shakily as he tried to steady his breathing. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear the dark haze that blurred his vision.

Beside him, Scott glanced out the corner of his eye, shooting Stiles a worried look.

Stiles felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He knew the man was there before he spoke, the rancid smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne burnt his nostrils.

General Gerard Argent.

His voice was harsh as he began to count the number of boots that sat on Stiles’ workbench.

“Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...”

Every word felt like a punch.

Stiles arms trembled as he fought to stay upright.

“Worthless,” Argent seethed. “You stupid boy, you’re doing it all wrong. Watch.”

He grabbed one of the boots and pulled it forward, tearing out the laces Stiles had struggled with.

Stiles heard the harsh snickering of PSFs behind him as others turned to watch.

“Like _this_ ,” the man growled. “Look at me.”

Stiles kept his eyes focused on the edge of the workbench.

It was a trick; the kids weren’t allowed to look at the PSFs.

Argent slammed the boot down on the workbench, making Stiles jump.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Scott tense. The older boy brushed his arm against Stiles’, a reassuring reminder that he was there.

The man moved to stand behind Stiles, his body pressed up against the boy’s.

“These boots,” he said, tapping the plastic tub with the toe of his boot. He leant in close, his lips nearing Stiles’ ear as he whispered, “Did you lace them?”

There was more laughter behind him.

Stiles swallowed hard, fighting the rising bile that burnt at his throat. He felt a wave of shame and dread wash over him, his stomach twisting as the man pushed himself against Stiles more. He felt tears pick his eyes, but he didn’t dare cry.

“They’re all wrong,” Argent said, his voice low and gritty. Without warning, grabbed the tub and emptied it out on the counter. The boots hit the bench with a horrendous sound.

All eyes turned on him.

They weren’t wrong; they were perfect. He knew whose feet would be in them, he knew better than to mess this up.

“Answer me, Green?” Argent growled. “Or are you as deaf as you are dumb?”

“That was my bin.”

Scott’s voice rang out through the silence.

Stiles’ heart lurched into his throat.

 _No_.

Argent pulled away from Stiles, glaring at Scott. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Scott said defiantly, turning to look the man in the eye. “Or has inhaling the shoe polish killed whatever helpless brain cells you had left?”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched up in a mocking smirk. “We’ve got a live one!”

The exhilaration in his voice made Stiles’ heart stop. The PSF was having too much fun, especially since he knew what happened next.

 _No_ , Stiles thought. _Just apologise. Don’t give them a reason._

Scott was brave and strong; he could easily hold his own in a fight, but he never knew which fights to pick. His gaze shifted to Stiles, waiting; hoping that his friend would back him up.

 _I can’t_ , Stiles thought, looking at his friend. _I’m sorry. I can’t do the things you can do. I’m not brave like you_.

 Scott read his face; he knew what Stiles was thinking.

Realisation filled Scott’s eyes, the brown depts darkening with fear as Argent stepped forward and grabbed his arm.

The soldier’s grip dug into his arm as Scott was dragged towards the door.

Stiles hung his head in shame, fighting the tears that welled in his eyes.

He knew all too well what the punishment for speaking out of turn was; the PSFs would handcuff you to the gateposts of the Gardens, leaving you without food, water or protection from the weather. Stiles had seen too many kids left out there in the snow without so much as a blanket or a coat to ward off the cold, their faces blue and their bodies still. He had seen even more kids, blistered and sunburnt, or covered in mud and shivering as the rain soaked through their clothes.

The punishment for repeat offences was something worse; something so bad that Scott didn’t talk about it when he returned to the cabin two days later. He came in, soaking wet and shaking from the winter rain. He limped slightly as he walked over to his bunk, brushing off anyone who came near him.

He stopped at the foot of their bed, lifting his gaze to meet Stiles’. He was livid, his dark eyes burning with rage.

Stiles felt his heart sink.

_I’m sorry._

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but they never made it past his lips.

_I’m sorry._

“Scott,” he whispered.

The boy turned away from him, hauling himself up onto the top bunk and rolling onto his side.

“Please,” Stiles rasped. “Say something.”

“You just stood there,” Scott said, his voice heartbreakingly quiet.

“You shouldn’t have—"

“You’re right,” Scott interrupted, rolling onto his other side to glare at Stiles. “I shouldn’t have.”

Stiles’ heart sank.

“Why can’t you ever stand up for yourself?” Scott said. “Just once, Stiles— _just once_ , will you stand up for yourself?”

Before Stiles could say anything, Scott shifted on the bed, turning his back on his friend again. “Just… leave me alone…”

The hem of Scott’s shirt rode up, exposing the angry red marks that had torn open his tan flesh and the discoloured bruises that marred his skin.

Stiles should have known better; he should have known not to touch him, not with the fever and the exhaustion. And the second his hand grabbed Scott’s, it was as if the ground had disappeared beneath him.

He plummeted into the burning, white-hot memories that didn’t belong to him. There were glimpses of memories: a whiteboard with memories notes across it, a dog sprinting across the front yard to chase the ball that had been thrown, a girl with long brown hair smiling, the burning pain as a fist hit his face—Scott’s face. Bursts of light flooded his vision as his head struck the brick wall. He didn’t get the chance to catch his breath; another fist struck his face and another slamming into his gut, knocking the air from his lugs. He coughed and wheezed, fighting to stay on his feet as fist after fist hit him.

Stiles jerked his hand away, slowly feeling his mind return to his body. His arm felt stiff as he slowly drew it away from Scott’s.

Scott was still for a moment. He turned and looked at Stiles, eyes wide and clouded. Slowly, consciousness and clarity returned to him.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat.

_He knows—he knows what I am._

Scott blinked as if stirring from sleep, his brow furrowed as he stared at Stiles. “Are you new here?”

His dark eyes were empty, his face blank as he looked at the boy. Stiles knew that expression; it was the same one his mother had worn the day the PSF came to take him away.

Scott took Stiles’ silence as reluctance to answer. “Do you have a name at least?”

“Stiles,” the boy answered.

Scott nodded and rolled onto his side, turning his back on Stiles again.

 

 

It was Boyd who woke him.

The teen slapped to his arm, jostling the boy awake.

Stiles sat up with a start, pulling back from Boyd as he took a second to adjust his eyes and take in his surroundings. He ran his fingers through his hair, combing the dark mess back out of his face before turning to look at the teen that had woken him.

Boyd stared back at him with one brow arched. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t you think you’ve slept long enough?”

Stiles looked around, a feeling of fear and panic settling into his stomach. He had left himself open and defenceless in a van full of strangers, and Boyd had been brave – or stupid – enough to touch him. He didn’t know who was luckier; Boyd for not having his mind wiped clean in a second, or Stiles for narrowly avoiding yet another disaster.

“Where are we?” Stiles asked as he pushed himself back upright in his seat. “Where are the others?”

Boyd glanced up from his book, looking out at the thick trees beyond the car’s tinted windows. “Somewhere near the city of Kingswood, West Virginia. Derek and Isaac went to check something out.”

“How long did I sleep?”

“A day,” Boyd said gruffly. “The general wants you up and ready to report to duty. You may only be a Green, but he’s expecting you to help.”

Stiles nodded.

He glanced at the empty seat beside him. A thought lingered in his mind. He thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully before asking, “Isaac’s a Yellow, right?”

“Yes,” Boyd answered shortly.

“And he was in your camp?” Stiles pushed. “You had Yellows in your camp?”

“Yes.”

Sties thought back to when he first met Isaac – the boy hadn’t said a word, not even to Derek and Boyd.

 “Did they… Did they do something to the Yellows there?”

Boyd turned sharply, glaring at Stiles. His voice was firm and precise as he enunciated every word he said. “That is absolutely none of your business.”

Stiles held up his hands in apology. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I just—”

“Were you even thinking what could happen to him when you followed him?” Boyd pressed. “Did you stop to think that your friends in the green SUV would just scoop him up and drag him away with you? Or maybe they’d just shoot him on sight.”

“The people in that green SUV—” Stiles didn’t get to finish; the back doors of the Jeep swung open, startling both Stiles and Boyd.

Boyd let out a startled squawk as he turned to look at the figure who stood behind the car.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he scolded, staring at the young boy with wide eyes. “Give us a little warning next time.”

Isaac looked back at him, his brows knitted together in confusion. He turned to look at Stiles, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

Stiles lifted a brow in response.

The boy stood there for a moment. His eyes grew wide as he remembered the reason he was there. He waved them outside, his bright yellow gloves flashing.

Boyd let out an agitated sigh, unbuckling his seatbelt and shoving open the passenger side door. “I told him this was a waste of time. They said _Virginia_ , not _West Virginia_.” He stopped for a moment and turned towards Stiles, levelling his gaze on the boy. “By the way, the SUV was tan. So much for that photographic memory.”

Stiles felt his stomach twist.

Boyd gave him a knowing look and slammed the door shut.

Stiles took a moment to calm his racing heartbeat. His hands shook as he reached for the doorhandle, pushing open the door and stepping out into the cold air. His feet sank into the mud as he followed Isaac along the small trail.

A large wooden sign was nailed against the withered wooden log fence, the letters that were carved into the sign reading EAST RIVER CAMPING GROUNDS.

The further they walked away from the Jeep, the more nervous and unsettled Stiles felt. The rain had stopped, but Stiles’ hands were cold and clammy. A shiver dragged its way up is spine as he looked at the abandoned RVs and caravans that were parked among the yellowing overgrown grass. All around them, as far as the eye could see, were burnt-out husks of what had once been homes. Some of the larger vehicles had entire walls torn off. The insides were gutted and most of them were waterlogged, infested with animals, and filled with the rotting debris of fallen leaves. It was a graveyard of past lives.

The screen doors had been torn off or warped, the tyres had been slashed or stolen, leaving the caravans tilted and sinking into the mud.

Something else caught his eye: a small swing set that still sat at the far end of the camp grounds, lonely and undisturbed.

Isaac slowed, waiting for Stiles to catch up. He held out a bright yellow gloved hand, his sapphire blue eyes sparkling as he looked up at Stiles pleadingly.

Stiles looked at the boy’s hand, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat as reached out and took it.

The boy smiled up at him as he wrapped his fingers around Stiles’ hand, slowly guiding him down the muddy path.

When the rain fell, it hammered against the empty shells, rattling some of the weaker roofs.

Stiles pulled his hood over his head before turning to help the boy who struggled to pull his over his curls with one hand. Isaac looked up at him, smiling sweetly as if to say thank you. Stiles gave his hand a gently squeeze before continuing down the track to where Boyd and Derek were locked in conversation.

It took Stiles a moment to recognise Derek. He still wore the old black leather jacket, but beneath it he wore a blue sweatshirt. The hood was pulled up over what looked like a Mets hat. and a pair of aviator sunglasses.

“—isn’t it,” he heard Boyd say. “I told you.”

“They said it was at the east edge of the state,” Derek insisted. “And they could have meant West Virginia—”

“Or they could have been messing with us,” Boyd finished. He must have heard Stiles and Isaac coming up the trace because he turned, scowling at Stiles.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Derek called, a smile lighting up his face. “You sleep okay?”

Isaac let go of Stiles’ hand and ran ahead.

Stiles buried his hand in his pocket, looking around. “What is this place?”

Derek blew out a sigh, his lips drawn into a straight line. “Well, we were hoping it was East River.”

“That’s in Virginia,” Stiles said. “The peninsula. It empties into Chesapeake Bay.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Boyd said dryly. “We’re talking about the Slip Kid’s East River.”

“Hey.” Derek’s voice was sharp. “Lay off. We didn’t know anything about it until we were out of camp, either.”

Boyd huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away. “Whatever.”

“So, this isn’t East River?” Stiles muttered, looking around at the abandoned trailers.

“It might have been once,” Derek said. He reached down to the boy at his side, gently patting down Isaac’s unruly curls. He smiled at the younger boy reassuringly. “In any case, this was a false alarm. Let’s see if we can find anything useful, then we’ll hit the road.”

Boyd shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and stalked past Stiles, bumping into his shoulder as he passed.

Stiles turned, watching Boyd leave.

“Don’t take it personally,” Derek said softly. “Sure, he’s a grumpy seventy-year-old-man trapped in a seventeen-year-old’s body, but he’s only trying to protect us. He can be insufferable, but he does it to keep himself at a distance. He thinks it’s easier, for all of us, to not get involved, especially if we have to leave you.”

He stepped over to Stiles’ side, watching as Boyd walked away, kicking stones across the parking lot.

“I know it’s not an excuse, but he’s as stressed and as freaked out as the rest of us. He’s scared as hell about what’ll happen, especially to Isaac, if we’re caught again. Stick it out and, I swear, you won’t find a more loyal friend.”

Derek gently patted Stiles’ shoulder before turning and walking down the trail towards one of the caravans.

Stiles’ eyes drifted to Isaac, watching as the boy made his way towards a campervan.

The younger boy jumped in and out of trailers, standing on his toes to peer through the broken windows, and kicking his little feet out as he hoisted himself into the wrecks. He clambered into one of the RVs that looked as if it had been split in half; the metal walls buckled and the roof sagging inwards.

Stiles followed him into the RV, pulling open the door that groaned in protest.

A small couch with a flat beige cushion was built into the side of the RV next to the warped kitchen cabinets. Everything was coated in dust and dirt. There was a small passage into the back where a bed was positioned in the middle of the room.

Isaac was already in the small passage. He pulled open the built-in closet, a panicked expression crossing his face as it fell off its hinges. He looked at Stiles, afraid, but seemed to relax when Stiles let out a soft chuckle. Inside was a couple of coats too big for any of them to wear, an old red and black flannel, a short silvery-grey dress, and a bunch of empty coat hangers. The boy began to pull them off the hangers and stuff them into the bag he was carrying.

Stiles stepped past Isaac and into the bedroom to look for blankets or sheets they could use. He began to search through the bed-side drawers when he saw it out the corner of his eye, the little black device that sat in the back window of the RV.

His body tensed, his stomach twisting and his breath hitching in his throat as he slowly turned to look at the device.

It was just like the ones he had looked at for the past six years; the small red light glaring at him from beneath the glossy black glass dome. It didn’t look the same as the ones in Thurmond, but it looked close enough that Stiles knew the same people were behind them.

Stiles turned to look at Isaac.

The boy had seen the camera too. He looked at Stiles, his eyes wide with terror.

Stiles held a hand up, motioning for Isaac to stay where he was.

The boy nodded, gripping the bag of clothes he had gathered tight.

Stiles shifted slightly, following the direction of the camera to see what it could see. The park, the road, the Jeep.

“Shit,” Stiles hissed. He grabbed the lamp from beside the bed and slammed it against the camera.

The black glass shattered, clattering across the window sill. The camera fell backwards, the red light making him wince as the lens looked up at him.

 _It’s on_ , Stiles thought, his mind a haze of panic.

Before Stiles could react, Isaac was standing beside him. He tugged the thick yellow glove off his hand and reached out towards it.

“Don’t—” Stiles gasped, but he was too late.

Isaac’s fingers only had to brush against the camera. His eyes lit up with a golden glow as bolts of white electricity leapt from his fingers.

The camera let out a high-pitched whine, the glass lens shattering and the plastic case warping under the heat. Plumes of smoke rose, the stench of burning plastic making Stiles cough. The little red light winked out. But the boy didn’t move.

Stiles opened his mouth to call the boy’s name, but he didn’t get the chance.

All the lights in the RV suddenly turned on, letting out a low buzz as they grew brighter and brighter.

Stiles grabbed Isaac, curling his body over the boy’s and shielding him as the lights shattered. Glass rained down around them, falling like diamonds across the vinyl floors.

Stiles slowly pulled back. He looked down at the boy in his arms. “You okay?”

Isaac looked stunned, his eyes glistening with tears as his hands shaking as he grabbed his rubber glove and shoved his hand back in it.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said softly, trying to calm the boy. He took Isaac’s gloved hand in his own. “Come on, let’s get the others and go.”

Stiles grabbed the bag of clothes Isaac had gathered and ran for the door, half-dragging the boy behind him. They sprinted back down the muddy track and over to the Jeep. He looked into the windows of the vans they passed, noticing the black cameras that sat in each of them.

_They’re coming._

He skidded to a halt before the Jeep, pulling open the door and lifting Isaac into his seat. He ran to the other side and climbed in, leaning forward into the front seat and slamming the heel of his palm against the horn.

The blaring horn woke the underbrush, birds squawked as they stirred in the trees.

Derek and Boyd came running down the path, sprinting towards the Jeep. They slowed when they realised they were still alone.

An annoyed expression passed over Boyd’s face.

Stiles let out an inpatient huff. He shoved open his door and leant out, shouting out to them, “We have to go— _now_!”

Derek said something to Boyd and the two of them sprinted to the car.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked as he pulled open the driver’s side door and jumped into his seat.

“They are cameras installed in all the vans,” Stiles explained. “Every single one of them. They’ve been watching us since we got here.”

“Are you sure?” Derek asked, his voice strangely calm.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Oh my god. We got Hansel and Grettled,” Boyd said.

“Seatbelts,” Derek said.

Stiles sat back in his seat and buckling himself in as Derek drove out of the camp’s carpark and turned onto the empty highway. They fell into a tense silence, listening to the rumble of the car on the road and the wind that whistled through the bullet hole in the windshield. Derek rested his elbow against his door, running his hand down his face.

“I knew we should have waited until it was dark,” Boyd muttered to himself. “If those cameras were on, they probably got the licence plate number and everything.”

“I’ll take care of the plates,” Derek said quietly.

Boyd screwed his face up, shaking his head.

“Just keep your eyes open and let me know if you see anyone or anything suspect,” Derek said.

“Like PSFs?” Stiles asked.

“Worse,” Boyd said. “Skip tracers.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “Skip tracers?”

Boyd turned around in his seat to look at Stiles. “Bounty hunters. PSFs are stretched pretty thin nowadays,” he explained. “Same with the National Guard and what’s left of the police force. So, they offer to pay people to hunt down kids. The reward for turning in a kid is ten thousand dollars.” He turned, glancing at Derek. “Some kids have a higher reward to their name.”

“I don’t think they’d send a PSF unit all the way out here on a tip,” Derek said reassuringly. “And unless they just happen to have a resident bounty hunter in this neck of the woods, we’re going to be fine.”

“Famous last words,” Boyd muttered as he sat back in his seat.

Stiles sat back, his body tense as he looked out the rain-splattered window. Beyond the sound of the wind and the rain, the faint echo of a train reached his ears—just like the one that would pass Thurmond in the middle of the night. Stiles felt his heart stop. His stomach twisted nauseatingly as he swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat. He felt himself pale, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for the panic attack to subside.

_I can’t go back._

“You okay, Green?”

Derek’s soft voice reached his eyes

Stiles opened his eyes, meeting Derek’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. He quickly glanced away and nodded. He reached up and wiped his face, unsure of whether the droplets that dampened his skin were from the falling rain or tears. He let out a shaky breath, trying to calm himself.

Derek didn’t turn on the radio.

The silence was unnerving.

As they drove, Derek kept looking around at the abandoned houses, glancing down at the fuel gage and in the rear-view mirror to check on Isaac. His fingers tapped against the worn steering wheel.

Beside him, Boyd was unfolding and folding something over and over again.

“Will you cut that out?” Derek said, his voice edged with agitation. “You’ll rip it.”

Boyd stilled, his fingers gripping the piece of paper tightly. “Can we just… try? Do we really need the Slip Kid for this?”

“Do you want to risk it?” Derek asked.

“Miguel would have.”

“Right, but Miguel…” Derek’s voice trailed off. He let out a measured breath. “Let’s just play it safe. Slip Kid will help us when we get to East River.”

“ _If_ we get to East River,” Boyd corrected.

“Miguel?” Stiles whispered.

Derek’s eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror, meeting his dark eyes.

“It’s none of your business,” Boyd snapped.

Stiles flinched at the teen’s harsh voice.

After a moment, Derek said, “He was a friend ours from camp… We’re trying to get in touch with his dad. It’s one of the reasons we need to find the Slip Kid.”

Stiles glanced over at the piece of paper in Boyd’s hand, piecing things together. “He wrote a letter for you to give to his dad?”

“The three of us did,” Derek explained. “We wrote letters to our parents in case one of us backed out or didn’t make it.”

“And Miguel didn’t,” Boyd finished, his voice sombre.

Derek fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he was quiet. “We’re trying to get his letter to his dad. We tried going to the address that Miguel gave us, but the house had been repossessed. He left a note saying he was going to D.C. for work, but he didn’t give a forwarding address or a phone number. That’s why we need the Slip Kid’s help—to find out where he is now.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“It’s okay,” Derek said. He swallowed hard, his hands tensing as he gripped the steering wheel. “It’s fine.”

 

 

It didn’t take long for Stiles to realise something was wrong. He noticed the way Derek’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, the way his eyes flicked back and forth between the side mirror and the road ahead, and the glint of worry in his eyes as he met Stiles’ gaze in the rear-view mirror.

Stiles glanced at Isaac who stared dreamily out the side window beside him, trying not to disturb the boy as he unbuckled his seatbelt and crouched between the front seats.

Derek nodded towards the side mirror.

Stiles craned his neck to look. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the white pickup truck that trailed two car lengths behind them.

The cool air outside made swirls of mist spiral between the cars, blurring the image of the driver.

“Maybe we should pull over?” Stiles said quietly.

Derek pursed his lips, thinking about it. It was a way of feeling out the situation; if the car was following them, then the other car wouldn’t be able to stop without revealing it, giving them a few seconds to react—to get the upper hand.

The Jeep followed the curve of the road, slowing as they pulled up to an intersection. Derek kept his eyes on the car behind them as he flicked on the turn signal—left.

The car behind them turned theirs on—right.

Derek let out a heavy sigh, sinking back in his seat as he stopped before the intersection.

Stiles felt his shoulders sag with relief. He watched an old silver Volkswagen turn into the intersection.

The white pickup truck pulled up beside them, the windows vibrating with the heavy base of the music that was blaring through the radio.

Stiles turned to look at the driver. He couldn’t help but laugh as he watched the man bob his head to the music, singing along at the top of his lungs. His smile fell when he recognised the song – AC/DC’s ‘Thunderstruck’. It was one of his Dad’s favourites, one that the two of them would sing along to in the patrol car on the rare occasions when his mum was out of town at a conference and the two of them had the weekend together.

A sharp screech shook Stiles from his thoughts as the driver of the Volkswagen hit the brakes. The window wound down as the man held something out the window: a small back box.

Stiles eyes flew open wide.

He slammed his hand against the radio, turning the volume to full blast, but it did nothing to drown out the White Noise.

The piercing noise tore through his head, making him cry out. He fell forward, cupping his hands over his ears as his vision began to blur.

The others crumbled around him. Derek fell forward against the steering wheel, pressing his hands to his ears in a desperate attempt to block out the sound. Boyd’s eyes fluttered, his body shaking as he collapsed against the passenger-side door.

The door opened beside him. A pair of hands reached out across Boyd, trying to untangle him from his seatbelt.

Stiles drew in a shark breath, fighting the tears that welled in his eyes as he pulled himself upright. He climbed into the front seat and lashed out, slamming the heel of his boot against the man’s jaw. He kicked again, hitting the man’s arms and knocking him back.

Stiles grabbed the front of Boyd’s shirt, hauling his limp body back into the car before pulling the door shut and thumping his hand against the lock.

The man regained his senses, glaring at Stiles through the window.

Stiles’ eyes fell to the badge that hung around his neck on a silver cord, a bright red Ψ symbol stitched into it.

They weren’t skip tracers.

They were PSFs.

 _I’m not going back_ , the voice in his head screamed.

The driver of the Volkswagen had gotten out of his car too. He had made his way around to the driver’s door – the White Noise device still firm in his grasp as he tried to unbuckle Derek’s seatbelt

Stiles grimaced. Every nerve in his body was on fire. He braced himself against the dashboard and threw himself at the other man. He slammed his fist into the PSFs face, knocking him back.

Stiles’ body crumbled as he collapsed against Derek’s chest. His eyes grew heavy, his head throbbing as the White Noise bore into his skull. Beyond the screeching sound, he could heart the rhythm of Derek’s heartbeat, feel the worn leather of his jacket against his cheek. He balled the teen’s jacket into his fist, tugging hard enough to stir Derek back to consciousness.

Derek bright eyes flew open wide but only for a second before the Volkswagen driver shoved the speaker against Stiles’ ear and the both of them crumbled.

Stiles felt the warmth drip from his nose as blood streamed across his cheek. He fought to keep his eyes open.

He saw the other driver pull open Isaac’s door and haul the boy out of the car, a rifle pointed at his tear-stained face.

He tried to call out to the boy, but his voice fell short of his lips.

He felt his mind throb, panic seeping into his veins. He grabbed at Derek’s jacket, trying to push away from him before he lost control and tore his mind apart.

 _Get up_ , his mind screamed at him. He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. _Get up!_

He felt the Volkswagen driver grab a fistful of his hair, dragging him out of the car and dropping him to the ground.

Stiles let out a grunt as he hit the ground, the gravel digging into his legs and the palms of his hand. The sharp rocks tore open the skin, letting blood drip into the dirt. The jolt of pain stirred him awake, letting his brain focus on something else but the screaming White Noise.

He rolled onto his side, trying to lift himself off the ground. The flutter of yellow caught his eye as he glanced under the Jeep. The loud thud of a door slamming shut shook him back to reality.

“Hale—confirm Psi number 42755 spotted—“ the Volkswagen driver said as he pulled a small orange device from his pocket and held it before Derek’s face.

_Derek._

Stiles’ screams tore at his chest, but his mouth wasn’t moving.

_Derek!_

The orange device flashed and a second later beeped.  Over the wailing sound of the White Noise, Stiles heard the man say, “Positive ID. Derek Hale.”

It happened too fast to register. There was a crackle of static in the air, a rolling blaze of hear that washed over Stiles, forcing him to turn away from the blazing light the consumed the air. He heard the man above him swear, the sound of metal crashing against metal, glass shattering and shards falling like hail on the ground in front of him, tearing at the back of his bare hands.

The driver of the Volkswagen dropped the White Noise device, the sound piercing Stiles’ ears as it landed beside him.

Stiles grit his teeth, grabbing the device and hurling it away from him. The black box shattered against the trunk of a tree and the noise was cut off, but it still rang in his ears.

Stiles felt a cold hand grab his ankle, dragging him back across the ground. Stiles kicked out, slamming his heel against the man’s hand and pulling his leg free of the man’s grip.

The PSF cried out, grabbing a radio from his belt. “ _This is Larson, requesting immediate backup_ —”

Stiles rolled onto his knees and staggered to his feet.

The man made the mistake of turning his back of Stiles for one second too long. He realised his mistake too late, turning to look over his shoulder as Stiles swung his fist, his knuckles hitting the man’s jaw and knocking him off balance.

The radio clattered as it fell to the ground. Stiles kicked it out of the man’s reach, his glare focused on the man.

Searing rage flowed through his veins.

 _I’m not going back_. _And I won’t let you take them._

The man turned on him, lunging forward.

Stiles grabbed the man’s wrist before he could land the punch and the monster in his mind broke free.

The man’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, reflecting the orange glow that consumed Stiles’ irises.

The boy dove into his mind, falling through it as if he were plunging into water.

 _Leave_ , the boy thought, the White Noise pulsing like electricity in his mind. He pushed an image into his mind, imagining the man picking up the radio and calling off the backup. He imagined him dropping the radio back on the ground and walking down the rocky slop that ran along the highway, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness among the trees as he walked further and further away.

Stiles unfurled his fingers, letting his hand drop back to his side as he drew back from the man’s mind and watched as the man did exactly as Stiles had imagined; cancelling the order for backup before letting the radio fall back against the gravel. He watched as the man turned towards the trees, his eyes glazed over as he began to walk.

Every step he took made Stiles’ chest tighten.

 _He_ ’d done that. Without thinking, he had done that.

The bitter stench of smoke drew his eyes to the rising black plume.

His heart sank into his stomach.

 _Isaac_.

He limped forward, the wreckage becoming clearer the closer he drew.

The white pickup truck that had been parked beside the Jeep was hundreds of meters away and on its side, black scorch marks darkening its side and the front of the car warped. The silver Volkswagen was in front of it, flipped on its roof and consumed by rolling clouds of black smoke.

“Isaac,” Stiles rasped, his voice tearing at his throat. Searing pain flooded through his body as he ran towards the cars. His body collided with the pickup truck as he hoisted himself up, looking through the open door and into the car.

He wasn’t there.

Stiles dropped back down onto the ground, following the tracks of shattered glass and tyre marks, but the only thing he found was the truck driver.

Bile rose in his throat as he looked at the man’s bloodied limbs were tangled in the wild grass, bones broken through skin and eyes were wide open, unseeing.

Stiles staggered back slightly, turning in circles.

He wasn’t there.

Stiles stumbled as he followed the trail back to the Jeep, a sigh falling from his lips when he found the small boy cowering in the shadow of the Jeep, his back was pressed up against the wheel and his shoulders hunched and trembling as tears fell from his cheeks.

Isaac’s knees were drawn to his chest and his head hung, hiding his face in the shadows.

“Isaac,” Stiles gasped, running forward and dropping to his knees in front of the boy.

The boy lifted his head, looking up at Stiles with bloodshot eyes. There was a cut across his forehead, a small smear of blood dripping down the side of his face. Tears stained his cheeks as his lips quivered with sobs.

Stiles swallowed hard, his tongue still feeling swollen as he tried to speak. “You… okay?”

The boy drew in a shaky breath as he nodded.

“What happened?” Stiles asked.

The boy curled in on himself, sobbing as he stared down at his bare hands.

Stiles’ eyes fell on the yellow gloves that sat on the ground beside him.

The pieces fell into place; Isaac had taken his gloves off to use his powers – to defend himself – but all it had taken was the slightest touch, one second, and he had sent the car slamming into the other.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said reassuringly, his voice scratching at his throat.

He reached up and pulled the Jeep’s door open. His arms trembled as he lifted the boy into the car and sat him in the closest seat, his hands shaking as he tried to buckle his seatbelt.

He took a step back to close the door when Isaac started to squirm and whimper, straining to look down at where his gloves laid on the road.

“I’ll get them,” Stiles whispered, his body aching as he crouched to pick up the rubber gloves. He laid them on Isaac’s lap, his heart aching as the boy scrambled to put them back on.

Stiles carefully reached forward, gently brushing the boy’s curls back from his face. He gave Isaac a reassuring smile before shutting the door.

He blinked the bursts of light out of his vision, slouching against the side of the Jeep as he shouldered the driver’s door the rest of the way open.

He untangled Derek’s limp limbs from the seatbelt and tried to roll him out of his seat. He didn’t have the strength to lift him into one of the back seats but did his best to set the teen down on the floor of the Jeep, nestled between the seats.

Stiles hoisted himself into the front seat, his hand shaking as he turned the keys.

The Jeep sputtered as it came to life, the sound of the engine rumbling comforting him.

He glanced at Boyd, still unconscious and slumped against the door. His seatbelt was still pulled across his chest and his shoulders rose and fell with small breaths.

Stiles glanced in the rear-view mirror, watching as Isaac pulled his knees up to his chest and cried.

“It’s okay, Isaac,” Stiles whispered. “We’re okay.”

He thought back to earlier that day and tried to mirror what he’d seen Derek do. He released the handbrake and shifted the car into gear. He turned down the blaring radio until it was just loud enough to match the piercing shrill in his ears.

He pushed his foot down on the accelerator, the wheels screeching slightly as they spun on the road.

He drove through the plume of smoke that rose from the car wreck, the veil of grey spread across the road. They broke through the swirling smoke, the wheels rumbling as they rolled down the road.

It was a while before the ringing in his ears began to fade and the sound of David Bowie’s voice began break through the haze.

It was nearly half an hour before the other boys began to stir.

Derek let out a low groan, grimacing as he pushed himself upright. “Holy crap.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Boyd muttered, his voice slurred and his eyes unfocused as he slumped back in his seat.

“Isaac,” Derek gasped, kicking himself upright and hoisting himself onto the seat next to the crying boy. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice agonised as he wrapped his arms around Isaac’s shoulders and held him close. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”

Isaac buried his face in his gloves, crying harder.

“Isaac,” Stiles said, glancing at the boy in the rear-view mirror. “Listen to me. You saved us. We wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Derek’s eyes snapped to Stiles, taking a second to realise he was there.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Yeah.”

“You’re bleeding,” Derek pointed out.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said dismissively, pressing the back of his hand to his nose and wiping away the trail of blood that dripped rom his nose.

“What happened?” Derek asked. “How did you get us out?”

“I didn’t,” Stiles answered. “Isaac saved us.” He swallowed hard, walking the fine line between the truth and what he could tell them. He glanced into the rear-view mirror, looking at Isaac. He couldn’t tell them the truth; he couldn’t confirm the boy’s worst fears. After a second, he said, “He sent a car crashing into the other. It knocked one guy out and sent the other running.”

“What…” Boyd paused, struggling to draw in a deep breath. “What was… that noise?”

Stiles turned to look at him, his eyes wide with disbelief and his lips quivering as they tried to form words. “You’ve never heard it before?”

The three boys shook their heads.

“You mean you didn’t have White Noise at your camp?” Stiles asked, looking between them and the road ahead.

They shook their heads again.

“Calm Control?” Stiles ventured.

He felt a wave of emotion crash over him; his chest ached as he struggled to breathe, hot tears welled in his eyes. He wanted to scream.

“You did?” Derek asked, stunned.

Stiles nodded. He swallowed hard, focusing his eyes on the road. He couldn’t look at them. “They used it at Thurmond to… disable us,” he explained. “When there were incidents – kids using their powers, fights, kids speaking back to a PSF – they’d set it off. It kept us from being able to think long enough to use our powers.”

 _Sometimes, they’d do it just to watch us squirm_ , Stiles thought, but he didn’t say it out loud.

“So why are you okay?” Boyd rasped, jealousy and suspicion adding a sharp edge to his voice.

 _That’s the question of the day_ , Stiles thought. He had lived through years of fainting, headaches, vomiting, memory loss, and the most recent bleeding from his nose, ears and eyes. Maybe having had a taste of the worse made this feel like nothing.

Derek’s eyes fell on him, searching his face.

Stiles reached up and brushed the back of his hand across his nose, wiping away the blood. “I guess I’m just used to it. They used it on us so much… And Greens aren’t as affected by White Noise as Blues and others.”

Derek seemed to sense his discomfort. “How long have we been driving?”

“About half an hour,” Stiles replied, feeling the older boy’s gaze linger on him.

“I can take over if you need a break,” Derek offered.

“You can take over when your hands stop shaking and you don’t look like you’re about to pass out,” Stiles replied.

Derek looked down at his trembling hand, balling it into a fist and unfurling it, trying to get rid of the numb tingling that Stiles knew all too well. His pale eyes found Stiles again. He opened his mouth again, but his voice trailed off as he saw Stiles’ bony, bloody knees. He reached forward, his hand hovering above Stiles’ knees.

Stiles jerked away.

“Sorry,” Derek whispered, pulling his hand back. His face flushed red. “You’re pretty cut up. We should stop and regroup, figure out where we are and where we’re going.”

“Next rest stop,” Stiles said, focusing his eyes on the road and trying to ignore just how close Derek was, how warm his body had been, and the way he had smelt when Stiles had fallen against his chest; the smell of leather, fire, and warmth.

He kept his eyes on the road, watching the passing signs. After another few minutes, he pulled over into rest stop with a red-brick building. He put the Jeep into park and shut off the engine.

Boyd shoved the door open, unbuckling his seat belt and stumbling out of the car before hurling up what little was left in his stomach.

Derek shoved open the side door and stepped over to his friend’s side, gently patting his back as the boy gasped for air.

Isaac shuffled across the backseat and leant out the car door to pass them a half-empty bottle of water.

Derek thanked him as he unscrewed the lid and offered it to Boyd.

Boyd poured some water into his mouth before spitting it out again. He gulped down the rest before offering the empty bottle to Derek.

“Isaac and I will get water and food,” he heard Derek say. “Can you help Stiles when you’re ready?”

Boyd nodded.

“Thank you,” Derek said, patting his friend’s shoulder before walking around the back of the Jeep and over to the silver water fountain by the toilets. Isaac followed after him, carrying a pink duffle bag.

A sharp jolt of pain made Stiles yelp. He pulled his arm away, turning to look at Boyd.

“Turn towards me,” Boyd said, setting a small metal box down on the dashboard and pulling out four flat, square packets.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh as he turned in his seat to face Boyd.

“Hold up your arms,” Boyd instructed.

He looked down at himself. The skin from his elbows to his wrists was shredded, blood welting near broken skin and the pale flesh coloured in smears of blue, black and red where bruises were beginning to show. His knees worse; the skin was torn open in gashes, streams of blood seeping into the torn green fabric of his camp uniform.

“How did you manage to do this?” Boyd muttered as tore one of the white packets open.

The smell of antiseptic burnt at Stiles’ nose, making him squirm away.

Boyd glared at him. “If you’re going to stick around, can you at least try to take care of yourself? It’s hard enough keeping the other two from getting hurt, I don’t need you flinging yourself at danger, too.”

“I didn’t _fling_ —” Stiles started. He bit his tongue, letting out a heavy sigh as he fought back the words. His voice was quiet as he said, “Sorry.”

Boyd began to wipe at the cuts, making Stiles wince as the antiseptic burnt. The sting was enough to wake him from his numb stupor, his eyes falling on Boyd’s hand wrapped around his wrist. A spark of panic flooded through him.

“Give me the wipe,” he said, taking it from Boyd and pulling away from his hold. “You should check on Derek and Isaac.”

“No, because they’ll be pissed at me for not taking care of you,” Boyd said. After a moment, somewhat reluctantly, he added, “Besides, I’d rather know you’re okay.”

Stiles dropped his gaze, letting Boyd hand him another wipe for the other arm.

“Why did you lie?”

Stiles’ head shot up at the question, his heart hammering in his chest.

“About Isaac,” Boyd finished. He glanced over his shoulder, his voice quiet as he continued, “You said he only knocked the guy out, but… that was a lie wasn’t it? He was killed.”

Stiles swallowed hard and nodded. “He didn’t mean to—”

“Obviously,” Boyd said sharply. “I was wondering why no one was coming after us, and then I realised why he wouldn’t. I know what it would do to Isaac if he found out, so… thank you. I guess you have some common sense after all.”

Stiles looked up at the boy, noticing the fracture in his composure.

What Derek had said to him earlier came back to him, and this time Stiles could see it; Boyd wanted him out because he was trying to protect the others.

“But what’s the world with one less skip tracer, huh?” Boyd said dismissively.

“They weren’t sip tracers,” Stiles corrected. “They were PSFs.”

Boyd scoffed. “And I guess their uniforms were stuffed under their plaid shirts and jeans?”

“One of them was wearing a badge with a Psi symbol stitched into it,” Stiles explained. “And he was carrying an orange device like the ones I’ve seen at Thurmond.”

Boyd stared at him blankly.

“Look,” Stiles said, “you don’t have to believe me, but you should know that one of them identified Derek. He radioed in a Psi number—42755. That’s Derek’s number, isn’t it?”

“Shit,” Boyd hissed, running his hands over his shaved head.

Stiles finished cleaning himself up, using the last wipe to clear the dirt, ash and blood from his face.  “I just want to know how that PSF recognised Derek, even before he used the orange thing. He called him Hale before he even used the device.”

Boyd looked at Stiles for a moment. “Everyone had their photo taken when they were taken into camp and processed, right?”

Stiles nodded. “So, what? They put the photos of missing kids on a network and use them to find them?”

“Green, how the hell am I supposed to know?” Boyd said. “Describe it to me.”

Stiles did, doing his best to describe the small orange devices.

“We’re in trouble if that’s all it takes to ID us,” Boyd said. “If we weren’t already screwed—they probably would know we’re looking for East River, which means there’s going to be more patrols, which means there’s going to be more skip tracer tip-offs, which means they’re going to be watching out families closer, which means it’ll be even harder for the Slip Kid to—”

“Boyd,” Stiles interrupted, startling the older boy from his tangent. “You really think they’re going to send an army after a few freaks?”

“No, they wouldn’t send an army out for a few freaks,” Boyd said. “But they _would_ send one out for Derek.”

Stiles blinked in surprise, his brow furrowed as he stared at Boyd.

“Who do you think was the mastermind behind our breakout?”


	6. Chapter 6

When the others were ready, everyone piled into the Jeep.

Isaac took his usual seat behind the driver and Boyd climbed in beside him, leaving Stiles to sit in the front next to the person Boyd had just told him was the one who thought up and pulled off what was probably the only successful camp breakout.

Stiles hoisted himself into the passenger’s seat, pulling the door shut and slumping against it. His head was still buzzing and his eyes were getting heavy.

“You alright?” Derek asked as he climbed in behind the wheel.

Stiles nodded, feeling too exhausted to answer.

“Lucky we have these two to take care of business, huh?” Derek said, looking at Boyd in the rear-view mirror. “Otherwise you and I would be in the back of a truck on our way back to Ohio.”

Derek was looking better; colour had returned to his face and his pale green eyes were no longer cloudy and unfocused. Considering this was his first time facing the agony that is White Noise, he had recovered fast.

“Alright, team,” Derek said, sounding serious. “Time for a Roscoe vote.”

“No!” Boyd objected. “I know exactly where you’re going with this and I know that no matter what my answer is, I’m going to be overruled.”

Derek ignored him. “All those in favour of letting Boy Wonder stay with us, raise your hand.”

Derek and Isaac raised their hands immediately.

Isaac beamed at Stiles, his sweet smile making Stiles’ heart ache. He couldn’t help but smile back at the boy.

“We don’t know anything about him,” Boyd pointed out. “Hell, we don’t even know if what he _has_ told us is true! The longer he’s with us, the more likely the League is to catch up to us—and you _know_ what they do to their kids.”

That comment struck home. Derek’s eyes darkened for a moment, his glare sharpening.

“They won’t catch up to us,” Derek said firmly. “We took care of that already. If we stay together, we’ll be fine.”

“No,” Boyd said. “I vote no, even though I know you’re only going to ignore me.”

“Two against one; you’re staying,” Derek said, turning to face Stiles. “Democracy in action.”

Boyd uttered something under his breath.

“Are you sure you’re okay with that?” Stiles asked.

“Of course I am,” Derek said. “What I wasn’t okay with was dropping out off at some back-of-beyond Greyhound station with no money, no papers, and no way of knowing for sure if you’ll get where you’re going safe and sound.”

His sweet smile drove daggers through Stiles’ heart.

“Where are you trying to go anyway?” Derek asked as he turned on the engine. The jeep coughed and sputtered before rumbling to life. “Could you have gotten there by bus?”

Stiles thought for a moment. He wanted to go home, he wanted to see his parents, but he knew that was impossible.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, unfolding the map that Boyd had handed him. He began to look at the roads, ignoring the look Derek gave him. “We have to be somewhere close to Winchester.”

“What makes you say that?” Derek asked, craning his neck to look at the spot Stiles pointed to. “You from around here?”

“No, I just remember driving past Keyser and Romney while the two of you were having your beauty sleep. And with all the Civil War Trails signs, we should be near one of the old battle fields.”

“Great deductive work, Mr Holmes,” Derek said. “But you can barely go fifty feet without hitting a historical marker for the place this army crossed, or that guy died, or where James Madison lived—”

“That’s in Orange,” Stiles corrected. “We’re nowhere near that.”

The daylight had dimmed to the pale blue light of the evening, gathering in his dark hair and making it look like midnight. His aventurine eyes sparkled as a grin lifted the corners of his lips. “So you _are_ from Virginia, then.”

“I’m not—”

“No one outside this state gives a shit about where James Madison lived,” he pointed out.

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but his argument fell short of his lips. He let out a sigh as he sat back in his seat. “You got me there.”

“I think we should stop for the night?” Boyd interrupted. He and Derek began to talk about where the best place for them to spend the night would be.

Stiles let his mind wander, slipping away from the conversation as his eyes drifted out the window. He leant his forehead against the cool glass of the window, letting the icy chill dull his throbbing headache. If anything, the cold was enough to keep him alert enough to keep the monster at bay; to stop his mind from wandering into Derek’s.

He let time slip away, taking in the sound of Derek’s soft voice singing ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’.

A few hours later, Stiles glanced into the rear-view mirror, smiling at the sight of both Boyd and Isaac asleep, the younger boy twisted in his seatbelt so that he could curl into Boyd’s side.

He slumped against the car door, letting his aching body relax for a moment.

“You okay?”

Derek glanced between Stiles and the road, his face lit but the dull glow of passing streetlights.

“Are you okay?” Stiles countered.

Derek tightened his fist again, still fighting off the tremors. “Yeah,” he said. “Did they really use that on you at Thurmond?”

Stiles nodded.

“Do you think the PSFs figured out where you’re going?” Stiles asked, trying to shift the conversation.

“Maybe,” Derek replied. “We could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Boyd stirred with a yawn. “Not likely. Even if they weren’t intentionally tracking us, they would be now. They were probably made to memorise your ugly mug and Psi number, and we already know how much a skip tracer would cash in if they caught you.”

“Well, it’s nice to see that someone hasn’t lost their optimism,” Derek said dryly. “We’ll be fine.”

“These are skip tracers we’re talking about,” Boyd insisted. “They’re professional hunters. It’s their _profession_.”

“Who’s this skip tracer you keep talking about?” Stiles asked.

“Kate Argent,” Derek said. “She’s one of the more… persistent skip tracers.”

“Persistent?” Boyd scoffed. “She’s been on us like a shadow ever since we got out of Caledonia. She shows up everywhere we go like she can guess what we’re going to do before we do it.”

“She’s good at what she does,” Derek said.

Boyd shot his friend a look. “Can you please not compliment the woman who’s hunting us? Don’t forget, she already caught your ass once.”

“What does she look like?” Stiles asked.

“White, long blonde hair, blue eyes,” Derek half-heartedly described. Derek glanced across at Stiles, reading the realisation on the boy’s face. “You’ve seen her?”

“In Marlinton,” Stiles answered.

“I told you so,” Boyd interrupted.

“She was the one driving the red truck,” Stiles told them. “But the League agents ran her off the road. Maybe we lost her.”

“Fat chance,” Boyd muttered. “That woman is like the Terminator.”

Derek flicked on the indicator and pulled into a rundown motel.

Stiles leant forward in his seat, staring at the gaudy building. The walls were painted a mustard yellow and the doors were painted blood red and boarded up with withering wooden planks. The bright neon MOTEL light that stood out was falling off its fixtures, the L flipped upside down, the T sitting crooked and the M fallen onto the rooftop.

There were a few cars in the parking lot and a few of the windows were lit up, shadows moving about in the rooms

“This place looks like a shit hole,” Boyd muttered.

“Well, it’s either this or we huddle for warmth on the roadside,” Derek said. He pushed open his door. “Stay here, I’ll scope it out and make sure it’s safe.”

He shut the door and began to walk along the concrete path, glancing into the dark windows before crouching to pick the lock on one of the doors.

“When people lost their homes, they’d go to the nearest closed motel and fight over rooms,” Boyd explained. “A lot of gangs hide out in places like this.”

After a moment, Boyd leant forward between the front seats and looked at Stiles.

“You and I, we’re smart, right?” he said.

“Yeah,” Stiles replied.

“Well, I’m smart enough to know you’re hiding something,” Boyd said. “And you’re smart enough to be hiding it. But if you think for some insane reason that we can protect you, then think again. We have enough trouble staying alive without whatever baggage you’re bringing to the table.”

Stiles stared at him, unable to think of what to say.

“Derek won’t tell you this, but the bounty on his head is over a hundred thousand dollars.”

“A hundred thousand?” Stiles repeated back, shocked.

“That’s why we have skip tracers like Kate Argent up our ass,” Boyd explained. “I’m not going to pretend like you didn’t help us today, or that you didn’t spend years living in that glorified shithole, but I’m telling you—use tonight to seriously think about your decision to stay. Wherever you’re going, I hope you get there—honestly, I do. Just… We can’t help you.”

Stiles didn’t reply.

Boyd stepped out of the car and walked around the back of the Jeep. He pulled open Isaac’s door, untangling the boy from his seatbelt before lifting him into his arms. Isaac stirred slightly with a slight mumble before wrapping his arms around Boyd’s shoulders and nestling his face into the older boy’s shoulder. Stiles’ eyes met Boyd’s for a second before the older boy turned around and carried the child into the motel room.

Stiles reached into the back, pulling his black backpack from the back seat. He was about to climb out of the car when his eyes fell upon the tattered book that sat on the backseat. He reached for it, feeling his heart tighten as he recognised the cover.

 _Watership Down_ by Richard Adams.

He loved that story; his father would read it to him before bed when he was younger. It was even the same edition that would sit on the shelf in his father’s study, the same one he’d steal and put on his bedside table when he couldn’t sleep at night. And now, when he needed it the most, there it was.

He carefully opened the worn cover to the page that Boyd had marked with a flattened empty Skittles packet. His eyes rolled over the page, drinking in the words.

_‘All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.’_

He glanced up at the door to the motel room that had been left ajar for him, and wondered if Boyd knew how the story ended.

 

 

The warm water beat against his skin, washing away the layers of dirt, ash and blood that caked his skin. He washed his hair with the shampoo that smelt of fake lavender and scrubbed his skin raw, watching the swirls of dirty water disappear down the drain.

Derek had managed to wake Isaac up enough to get him to shower and change into some oversized clothes before tucking the boy into the bed. Boyd had taken the next shower, lecturing them all about hygiene and telling them to wash their clothes in the sink and hang them out to dry overnight. When he came out an hour later, Derek offered Stiles a turn and said he’d shower in the morning.

As soon as Stiles stepped into the tiny bathroom, he locked the door and dumped his bag on the toilet. He unzipped it and nearly yelped in surprise as something grey fell at his feet.

He gently prodded it with the toe of his canvas shoe, realising after a moment that it was the dress they’d found in the caravan. Isaac must have put it in his bag when he wasn’t looking.

He let out a heavy sigh, picked up the dress and set it aside on the counter. Inside the toiletries bag the League had given him was travel-sized deodorant, a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, a pack of tissues and a small bottle of hand sanitiser. Under that small bag was a water bottle and a pair of jeans. And under that was a glossy black panic button that Melissa had given him.

A cold shudder ran up Stiles’ spine.

He snatched it out of his back, feeling the cold metal chain dig into the palm of his hand as he held it over the small waste bin in the bathroom. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

What if he needed it? What if something so bad happened that he needed help?

He shoved the panic button into the back pocket of the bag and set everything aside, climbing into the shower and turning on the hot water.

Fifteen minutes later, his skin had been scrubbed clean. He stood under the water, letting the droplets fall against his skin, dripping from the tousled strands of his hair and trailing across his skin.

He didn’t know what brought it on, but a second later it felt like his chest caved in. His vision was flooded as tears streamed down his cheeks. He leant against the smooth white tiles of the shower wall, holding one hand to his mouth and letting the sound of the water drown out his sobs; he couldn’t let the others hear him.

He let his knees weaken, falling to the floor of the shower. He sat down and pressed his back against the tiles, pulling his knees to his chest as he unravelled.

He stayed like that for a while, letting his emotions overwhelm him.

After a while, he felt the panic attack subside.

He drew in deep breaths, steadying himself as he rose to his feet and shut off the shower, stepping out, and wrapping a towel around himself. He looked at his reflection in the steam-misted mirror, staring at himself as if he were looking at a stranger.

 It was his face—the nose, the eyes, the moles—but something was different.

He stared at his reflection, watching as his irises lit up with an orange glow.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

Stiles blinked, his eyes returning to their natural dark hue.

When he didn’t answer right away, Derek’s voice called out from the other side. “Stiles? You okay?”

Stiles drew in a deep breath. “Yeah,” he replied. “I’m fine.”

“Can you—uh—can you open the door? Just for a sec?”

He sounded nervous and that set Stiles on edge.

Stiles flicked up the lock and opened the door, a blast of cold air crashing over him as he forgot he only had the towel wrapped around his waist.

Derek stood in front of him, his eyes wide as he stared at Stiles; a pair of white socks in his hand.

“Is everything alright?” Stiles asked.

Derek blinked as he shook himself from his stupor, his lips moving as he tried to compose himself. He held the socks out for Stiles. “Just wanted to… give you these. You know, for you.”

“Don’t you need them?” Stiles asked.

“I have a couple extra pairs, and you have none, right?” He fought to keep his eyes up, his face flushed red as he struggled to find his words. “Boyd says your extremities are the first things to get cold, so you need them, and—”

“Oh my God,” Boyd cried out from across the room, exasperated. “Stiles, just take the damn socks and put him out of his misery.”

“Shut up, Boyd,” Derek growled, shooting his friend a glare.

“Your southern charm is working a treat, Der,” Boyd teased. “You’ve gotta teach me your moves someday.”

Stiles fought back a burst of laughter. He felt a wave of warmth flood his cheeks as he took the socks from Derek with a shy smile and whispered, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Derek said. “And, um—You, uh…”

“Use your words, Derek,” Boyd prompted.

Derek rolled his eyes. “There’s only one bed so you and Isaac are going to have to share. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Stiles replied. “But what about you and Boyd?”

“Boyd kicks in his sleep, so he’s banned from sharing beds,” Derek answered. “We’re just going to grab some spare blankets and sleep on the floor. So, you’re okay sharing with Isaac?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replied.

“Great,” Derek said, a smile brightening his face.

“Great,” Stiles repeated back, feeling a little confused.

Derek turned to walk back across the room and Stiles shut the door, looking down at the socks in his hands.

Through the door he heard Boyd’s voice in his usual told-you-so tone. “—hope you’re happy with yourself. You could have just left him alone. He was fine.”

But he hadn’t been, and somehow Derek had known.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles and Isaac lay in the room’s only queen-sized bed, huddled together for warmth. Stiles had tucked the blankets around the boy to keep him warm, but also to keep him cocooned and protected from Stiles.

The other boys were on the floor with blankets, using extra towels they’d grabbed from the cleaning cart as pillows. Boyd had fallen asleep pretty easily, but Derek had been right; he kicked in his sleep. Stiles would be drifting on the edge of his sleep when he felt the bed jolt or heard a thump as the boy kicked the wall.

Stiles eventually let his mind settle and drifted off to sleep. But, as he did, he felt the itch at the back of his mind. He had expected it; he knew that if he dropped his defences, the monster would come out.

All it took was Isaac shifting in his sleep, his bare elbow brushing against Stiles’ arm and Stiles fell into his mind.

 

 

Stiles stood in the open air, watching the drifting flurries of snow fall. The piercing glare of floodlights broke through the dark night, lighting up the deep snow. Wind blew through him, making him shudder.

It was like everything was in slow-motion, every second drawn out until time was nothing.

A figure brushed past him, running as fast as they could through the deep snowdrift.

He turned, watching the boy in the bright yellow shirt. His blonde curls bounced about on his head, his yellow gloves pulled up to his elbows as he ran as fast as he could, not able to keep up with the older kids.

The silence was broken by the first gunshot, the thundering bang echoing through the darkness as the bullet tore through a child’s chest, spraying blood across the sheets of white snow.

Isaac’s blue eyes were wide with terror, but he didn’t get the chance to take in what had happened; more gunshots rang out, a barrage of bullets tearing through bodies. The screams of the children filled the night.

“Isaac!” a voice rang out through the darkness.

The boy turned, tears welling in his eyes as he saw an older boy in a blue uniform run towards him, his sandy-blonde hair was cut short and a few shades darker. Isaac let out a sob as he looked up at his brother.

His stormy blue-grey eyes widened as he dropped to his knees in front of the younger boy. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder as if he knew what would happen next. He turned, hunching over Isaac as a bullet tore through the air.

Isaac reached up, his gloved fingers brushing the wet smear away from his cheek. He looked down at his hand, the tips of his yellow gloves stained red. He felt a scream rise into his throat as he realised what had happened; his brother’s blood was spread across his face.

“Run,” the older rasped, blood spilling over his lips as his body collapsed to the ground.

Isaac struggled to his feet, tears streaming down his cheeks as he struggled through the snow, following the others to where kids were running towards the gates, a sea of blue, green and yellow uniforms gathering ahead of him.

A boy with ebony skin was in the control booth, trying to unlock the gates—Boyd. Two older Blues stood at the front of the crowd, trying to hold the other kids back from the electric fence. One—a boy Stiles didn’t recognise—turned and shouted for Boyd to hurry up, but there was nothing the boy could do.

Stiles recognised the other Blue, his dark hair damp from the falling snow and his pale eyes lit by the floodlights.

Derek.

The older boy took a step forward, holding his hands out in front of himself as his eyes lit up a brilliant blue. The bolts of the gate began to shudder, the metal groaning as it buckled under the strain. Stiles watched in awe as Derek let out a cry, his power pulsing through him as he blew the gates wide open. They fell back off their hinges, clattering to the ground as the kids ran forward, towards the dense growth of trees and into the darkness beyond.

Another wave of bullets rang out.

Isaac fell to the ground. He curled up on himself, using his arms to cover his head as kids ran into him. Toes of shoes dug into his ribs and feet struck his shoulder blades as they ran past.

He was screaming, but he couldn’t make a sound. The drew in broken gasps, the icy air tearing at his lungs with every breath.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears streamed down his face as terror flooded his body, his mind flooded with one though: _I’m going to die_.

He felt his body be lifted out of the snowdrift, hoisted into the warm arms that held him tight.

Isaac slowly blinked his eyes open, looking up at Derek’s pale aventurine eyes. He wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, cradling his face into the teen’s shoulder as the older boy carried him out gate.

 

 

Stiles was thrown from the dream as Isaac bolted upright with a gasp. He swallowed hard, his head throbbing as he turned to look at the boy.

His small silhouette stood out among the dim light.

Stiles reached a hand out towards him but found someone else’s hand already there.

“Isaac,” Derek whispered softly, hoisting himself up onto the edge of the bed and pulling the boy into his arms. “Hey, Isaac…”

Stiles stayed still, listening. He heard Isaac’s quiet sobs, muffled slightly as he buried his face in Derek’s shirt. He heard Derek’s voice, soft and reassuring as he comforted the boy.

“Hey,” Derek said gently, setting the boy down and reaching out to brush the boy’s curls back from his tear-stained face. “You’re okay. It was just a bad dream.”

Stiles heard Derek pick something up off the nightstand.

“Write it down,” he encouraged. “Take your time. Don’t force yourself.”

Stiles waited, listening as Isaac wrote something down and Derek read it in the dim light.

“What are you sorry for?” Derek asked. “The only one who needs his beauty sleep is Boyd.”

Isaac let out a shaky laugh, sniffing back his tears as he started writing again.

“Was it… the same as before?” Derek asked. He waited for Isaac to write something. “A little different?” He repeated back, waiting again as Isaac scribbled against the motel’s stationary pad. A moment later, his voice grew even quieter. “Yeah, I could never forget that. I thought you’d been shot or maybe you’d touched the fence before Boyd figured out how to shut it off.” Seconds passed before he said, “I’m so sorry.”

The guilt and misery that filled his voice made Stiles’ heart ache.

Isaac wrote something else down.

“Boyd isn’t the only one that thinks it’s too dangerous, but I think Stiles is tough enough to make it without us if he wants to. Why?”

Isaac wrote down his response before holding it out for Derek to read.

“The only thing Boyd wants is for us to be safe,” the older boy said, keeping his voice low. “Sometimes that gets in the way of doing what’s good for others. It’s only been two weeks since we got out and he’s still trying to keep the two of us safe. Give him a little more time.”

Stiles heard more scribbling.

“Hey,” Derek said softly, comfortingly. “Never be ashamed of what you can do, you hear me? If you hadn’t been there, we wouldn’t be here.”

The room settled back into quite, except for the soft rhythm of Boyd’s quiet snoring.

“You feeling better?” Derek asked, his voice full of worry and care. “Do you need anything from Roscoe?”

The boy must have shaken his head because Derek said, “Okay. I’ll be right here, just wake me if you need anything, alright?”

The bed shifted as the older boy stood up, holding up the edge of the blanket as Isaac set the motel stationary down and crawled back under the blanket. He rolled onto his side, facing Stiles.

“You alright?” Stiles whispered.

The boy nodded, shuffling forward and curling up against Stiles’ chest.

Stiles watched as Derek sat down, his back resting against the edge of the mattress as he sat and watched the door.

 

 

It was another few hours before Stiles woke again, the glow of the early morning light filtering in through the thin curtains. He gently untangled Isaac’s hands from the front of his shirt, careful not to wake the boy as he slid out of the bed.

The red glow of the alarm clock that sat on the bedside dresser read 5:03 am.

Stiles dragged a hand through his hair before rising to his feet.

None of them had unpacked their things, so Stiles was quick to pack up.

He pulled out his clothes—a pair of shorts, the grey dress Isaac had found, his black hoodie, boots, and the socks Derek had loaned him—and got dressed. He fussed with the hem of the short dress, trying to pull it down enough that it would cover his leg and bunching it up to try and make it look more like a shirt. Finally, he gave up.

He collected his toothbrush and toothpaste from where he’d left them on the bathroom counter. Next to them were a couple of the little toiletries that the motel offered. He stuffed them into his bag too before grabbing his hoodie and heading over to the door.

He shuddered as he stepped out into the cool morning air, pulling his jacket tight around himself.

Derek had moved the Jeep from where he had parked it across the parking lot last night; now it was right outside their motel room.

Stiles set his bag down by the front wheel, running his fingers across the dented blue side. One of the side doors sat open, the radio inside switched on and just loud enough to drift across the parking lot but not loud enough to wake anyone.

He caught a glimpse of something white sitting on the ground by the back wheel: an Ohio number plate; warped, dented, scratched and missing a number thanks to a bullet hole.

He bent down and picked it up, stepping around the back of the car to see Derek crouched and screwing new plates into place. There were dark circles under his eyes and his lips were drawn into a stern line. His hair was still wet from his shower, droplets of water lingering on the tips and dampening the collar of his sweatshirt. With his hair cut shorter and his face clean shaven, he could have looked two—maybe three—years younger, but his eyes told another story.

“Hey,” stiles whispered.

Derek rise to his feet with a start. “What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“You’re up early,” Derek pointed out. “I usually have to drag Boyd into the shower and blast him with cold water to wake him up.”

Stiles let out a soft laugh. He shrugged and said, “I guess I’m still on Thurmond time.”

Derek nodded, his eyes flicking down as he fought back a smile.

“I look stupid, I know,” Stiles said, looking down at himself.

“No,” Derek said frantically. “It’s just been a while since I’ve seen a girl in a dress… or a guy. I feel like I should ask you to prom.”

Stiles laughed.

“Sorry, I’m already going to with the captain of the lacrosse team,” Stiles joked.

“Ah, Jackson Whittemore,” Derek said.

“Did you just make that name up?”

“No, Jackson was the captain of my high school lacrosse team,” Derek explained. “But he was an idiot. You’d deserve better than him.”

“Guess I should dump him then,” Stiles jested.

Derek glanced up, meeting his gaze. “Are you saying I have a shot?”

“Let’s finish swapping these plates and we’ll see,” Stiles said.

Derek laughed. He held out his hand for the Ohio plate Stiles was holding and tossed it into the back of the Jeep before pulling out a dusty red gas can and an old black pipe.

He made his way over to a black SUV across the parking lot. Stiles followed him, crouching behind the car as he watched Derek pry open the gas tank, unscrew the cap and feed one end of the black pipe into the tank before setting the other end in the red gas can.

“Where in the world did you find that?” Derek asked.

“Present from Isaac,” Stiles said, tugging at the grey fabric.

“He likes you,” Derek said.

Stiles felt his heart flutter at that, a sweet smile lifting the corners of his lips.

“Just be careful,” Derek warned. “Isaac’s so starved for some one-on-one time that he might turn you into his own personal dress-up doll.”

“After everything we’ve been through, I might just let him,” Stiles admitted.

“You look like you want to set it on fire,” Derek laughed.

“I can’t guarantee there won’t be an unfortunate accident later.”

Derek let out a low laugh as he held his hand out, his eyes lighting up blue as he began to draw his hand back towards them as if he were pulling on an invisible rope.

“What are you—” Stiles let his words die away as he watched a few droplets of pungent liquid dripped from the end of the hose and into the can.

 _Siphoning gas_ , he realised.

“Gas crisis,” Derek said with an apologetic shrug. “Times are tough, and we were running on fumes for a while yesterday.”

“But you’re a Blue, right? Couldn’t you just... push the car?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah, but…” Derek bowed his head shyly. “Not for long.”

“I guess I’m just impressed you can use your abilities,” Stiles admitted. After years of fearing the smallest slip of their abilities, he’d learnt to hide what he could do. At Thurmond, if you used your abilities—if you slipped up and lost control—you were punished.

“It’s pretty straightforward for Blues,” Derek admitted. “You look at something, concentrate hard enough to imagine the object moving from point A to point B, and it just... does. I bet a lot of the Blues at Thurmond figured out how to use their abilities, they just chose not to. And after what happened yesterday—that noise they used—I don’t blame them.”

“Did you teach yourself?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah. I went into camp pretty late and had plenty of time alone before that to figure things out,” Derek answered. He shook the last few drops of petrol from the hose before pulling it out of the tank, replacing the cap and pushing the panel flat.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles muttered.

“For what?” Derek asked, casting a glance his way.

“I don’t mean to ask so many questions,” Stiles said, blowing his head as he fidgeted with his fingers. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to talk to people that I guess I’ve forgotten how to make friends.”

A sweet smile lifted the corners of Derek’s lips as he rose to his feet. “Just be yourself.”

He turned and made his way over to the next car.

Stiles stood still for a second, the smile falling from his face.

 _I can’t_ , he thought. _If you knew the monster I am, you’d never want to be near me—you’d hate me; fear me_.

He followed Derek to the next car, his eyes scanning the motel for any sign of movement.

“What’s your favourite colour?” Derek asked, breaking the quiet between them.

“My favourite colour?” Stiles repeated back.

“Those are the kind of questions you ask to make friends,” Derek pointed out.

“Blue,” Stiles answered. “You?”

“Somewhere between a caramel-brown and an orange,” Derek answered. “What’s your favourite band?”

Stiles thought about it for a moment before answering, “Queen.”

“Nice,” Derek said, a smile lighting his face.

“What about you?”

“The Beach Boys,” Derek answered without a beat of hesitation.

“Really?” Stiles said, stunned. “I had you pegged as a Led Zeppelin fan.”

Derek let out a quiet chuckle but shrugged.

From across the parking lot, the sound of the radio drifted over to them; the melody of Kansas, ‘Carry On My Wayward Son’.

Stiles listened to the song, feeling the words sink in. But the song sounded even better when Derek started to sing along, his deep voice quiet and soft.

When the flow of fuel finally stopped, Derek pulled the hose out and replaced the fuel cap. He screwed the cap onto the dusty red gas can and stood up. The two of them settled into a comfortable silence as Derek used the fuel to fill the Jeep.

A nearby door rattled, startling them.

Stiles and Derek turned, looking as a man and a woman stepped out of the motel room. They looked to be in their thirties and stilled when they saw Stiles and Derek.

“Skip tracers,” Derek whispered, stiffening and readying himself for a fight.

 _Just go_ , Stiles begged, feeling his power spark as the invisible hands clawed their way out of his mind. _Please, just go_.

The woman met his gaze, her eyes hazy as she reached out and tugged at her partner’s sleeve.

“Let’s just go,” she said quietly, shrugging her back onto her shoulder and turning towards the car.

Her partner followed.

Stiles blinked the glow from his eyes and watched as the couple drove out of the car park.

“What was that?” Derek asked, confused.

“I don’t know,” Stiles lied.

“Whatever it was, I don’t want to eb here if they decide to come back,” Derek said. He set the gas can in the back of the Jeep and fetched the others.

Stiles tossed his bag into the back of the car before joining the others.

Boyd was muttering something about how five thirty was too early to be woken up, but Derek brushed him off, cleaning up the room and collecting the last of their things.

Isaac was still struggling to open his eyes, swaying as he stood by and watched Derek make the bed.

Stiles stepped over to Isaac’s side, crouching before the boy.

Isaac’s eyes lit up as a bright smile lifted his lips, one that seemed to say, ‘You’re still here!’

Stiles smiled back, letting Isaac wrap his arms around the older boy’s shoulders. Stiles hoisted Isaac off his feet and carried him out to the car. He set the boy down in his usual seat and buckled him in.

Isaac shuffled slightly as he curled up and drifted back off to sleep.

Stiles quietly shut the door, stepping around the car as Boyd came out of the motel room.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Stiles, but he said nothing; he just shook his head and let out a sigh as he stepped past Stiles and climbed into the back.

Stiles climbed into the passenger’s seat, watching as Derek made his way out of the room with a cup of crappy motel coffee in his hand. He climbed into the car, checked the mirrors and buckled himself in before starting the engine.

Derek took no notice of the barrage of questions Boyd threw at him. He turned to Stiles and asked, “Do you know how to read a map?”

“No,” Stiles admitted. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” Derek said, a sweet smile playing across his lips. “I’ll teach you later. For now, I just need someone to watch the signs for me.”

Stiles jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Boyd who was leaning against the door, fighting sleep.

Derek shook his head. “He won’t admit it, but he needs glasses. Yesterday, he thought a mailbox was a clown.”

“That bad, huh?”

Derek nodded. He reversed out of the parking space and turned onto the road. He reached over and turned on the radio, keeping the volume low as not to wake the two boys in the back seat.

Stiles rolled his window down slightly, breathing in the sweet petrichor that filled the morning air. The warmth of the sunlight seeped into his skin as he let his head rest against the window frame. The breeze tousled his hair as he closed his eyes for a second and let himself enjoy the sound of Derek’s voice as he sang along to the songs that played.

There was a quiet sigh as Isaac shifted in his sleep.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder, watching the boy’s chest rise and fall with slow breaths.

“Did we wake you last night?” Derek asked, his eyes flicking from the rear-view mirror to Stiles.

“I caught a little of it,” Stiles said, sitting back in his seat. “Does he have a lot of nightmares?”

“In the few weeks I’ve known him, it’s been an every-other-night kind of thing. Sometimes he dreams about Caledonia and I can talk him down, but I never know what to say when he dreams about his family. I swear, if I ever meet his parents, I’m going to…”

He cut himself off, his hands tense on the wheel.

“What did they do to him?” Stiles asked before he could stop himself.

“Beat him, abused him, and gave him away because they were scared of him,” Derek said. “Boyd and I, our family tried to protect us, they kept us hidden—that’s why we went into the camps late. Isaac’s parents actually _sent_ him and his brother, Camden, away because Isaac accidentally short-circuited his dad’s car.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles gasped.

“They sent them to school on the first official Collection.” He paused for a moment, realising Stiles had no idea what he was talking about. “Sorry, I forgot you missed this. After most of the kids our age were taken into camps or in hiding, the government issued a notice that told any parents who didn’t feel safe or thought they weren’t capable of taking care of their kids to send them to school on a specific morning and the PSFs would collect them for rehabilitation. They kept it all hush-hush to avoid _upsetting_ the kids or _inciting them to misbehave_.”

There was a bitterness that added an edge to his voice.

“Did he tell you this?” Stiles asked, glancing over his shoulder at the sleeping boy again.

“He hasn’t _told_ me anything. He writes it all down,” Derek answered, keeping his eyes on the road. “In pieces; how his father would lock him in a freezer, throw things at him, shout at him. How his brother would do everything he could to protect him, but it was never enough. I haven’t ever heard him say a word.”

“So, he chooses not to speak? It’s not something they did to him.”

“No, it has everything to do with what they did to him,” Derek said. “I think that’s the most frustrating feeling in the world: to have something to say bit not know how to put it into words. To have lived through something but not be able to get it out.”

 _It is_ , Stiles wanted to say. It was the most frustrating feeling in the world, second only to the inherent helplessness that came from being trapped in a camp, all of your decisions made for you. The rules in camp were that you weren’t allowed to speak except for the ten minutes before lights out, but after what happened with Scott, Stiles didn’t say a word for almost a year; there was just no way to put it into words, no way to tell anyone how much pain you were in.

_But, sometimes, not talking makes it easier to keep secrets._

“I mean, you’re right—he can talk, and maybe one day he will,” Derek said, hope and doubt at conflict in his voice. “But after everything I’ve put him through—after everything that’s happened… I don’t know if he ever will.”

 _It’s not your fault_. The words caught in Stiles’ throat, the conversation dying as the radio station cut to a news report.

“ _… initial reports indicate that four separate explosions were set off this morning in Manhattan’s subway_ …”

 Derek quickly changed the channel, but Stiles changed it back.

“ _—though confirmation has been slow to come out of the city, we believe these explosions were not nuclear or biological in nature, and were concentrated around midtown, where President Raeken was rumoured to be in hiding after the most recent attempt on his life._ ”

“League, West Coast, or fake?” Boyd’s sleepy voice floated from the back seat.

“ _Our sources indicate that President Raeken and his cabinet believe the Federal Coalition was behind the attack_.”

“Federal Coalition?” Stiles repeated.

“West Coast,” Boyd and Derek answered in unison.

“They’re a group of politicians based out of Los Angeles,” Boyd elaborated, sitting up in his seat. “They’re the section of the government that survived the D.C. bombings and weren’t crazy about the fact that Raeken disregarded the two-term limit to his presidency. They’re mostly talking heads since the military sided with Raeken.”

“Why is the president in New York, not Washington?” Stiles asked.

“D.C. bombings targeted the White House, and with the country in debt, Raeken can’t rebuild it. So, he split the government up and spread them across the country, between Virginia and New York for its _protection_ ,” Boyd said, the last bit mockingly. “To make sure none of the fugitive Psi groups or the League got any ideas about wiping it out all at once.”

“So the Federal Coalition… They’re against the camps? The reform program?”

Boyd let out a dry laugh. “Hate to break it to you, Green, but something you’ll learn pretty fast is that we’re not a priority to _anyone_. The country’s broke as a joke; no one cares about us.”

“Who do we like then?” Stiles asked.

“We like us,” Derek said. “And that’s about it.”


	8. Chapter 8

Virginia seemed like a ghost town. He stared out the window as they passed old storefronts, the faded red brick covered in spray painted tags, the windows boarded up, shattered, or obscured by pieces of cardboard that were taped to the inside of the glass. Big stickers reading FOR LEASE and CLOSING DOWN were stuck to the outsides of the buildings.

Of all the fast food stores, there only seemed to be two that were still in business: Cracker Barrel and Waffle House – and of the two, only one was open before nine am.

Derek parked the Jeep in the alley way, a short distance from the Waffle House. He dug into the centre console, pulling out a few crumpled notes and some coins, counting them.

“Twenty dollars,” he said, shoving the cash into the pocket of his leather jacket. “I’ll get as much food as I can and bring it back.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Derek said. “You three stay here. I’ll be five minutes, but if I’m not back in ten, leave without me.” His face was serious as his eyes he looked from Stiles to Boyd. “Got it?”

“Ten minutes,” Stiles repeated back to him.

Derek nodded and pushed open his door, stepping outside.

Isaac held up a small notebook, waving it to get Derek’s attention.

“Finished already?”

The boy nodded.

“Why don’t you have Boyd check your answers? Don’t make that face. He’s better at math than I am anyway.”

“Damn right I am,” Boyd said without looking up from his book.

Isaac pouted, but quickly flipped open the notebook to a blank page and scribbled something down. He held it out for Derek to read.

“Whoa, whoa— _long division_. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, bud. You still haven’t mastered your double-digit multiplying.”

Isaac slumped back in his seat, his face screwed up.

Derek offered him and apologetic look as he shut the door and walked down the alleyway.

Stiles watched him go, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut as Derek walked away.

“You have to stop encouraging him,” Boyd said to Isaac. “He has to accept reality at some point.”

Isaac screwed up his face and pointed his tongue out at Boyd.

“I’m sorry,” Boyd said, but his voice made it sound like he wasn’t. “It’s a waste of time and energy to teach you these things when you’re never going to use them.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles said. He ignored Boyd’s glare, smiling at Isaac as he added, “You’ll be ahead of everyone your age by the time things go back to normal.”

Stiles didn’t believe a word he was saying; he didn’t remember what ‘normal’ was anymore. If he was being honest, he would support Boyd’s argument; things aren’t ever going to be ‘normal’ again.

“You know what I’d be doing if things were normal?” Boyd said. “I’d be picking which college I’d be going to in fall. I’d have taken my SATs, gone to football games and prom, that is if…”

His voice trailed off, but Stiles knew where he was going. His mother had told him that education was a privilege that not everyone could afford.

Isaac seemed to sense the shift in mood. His bright blue eyes darted between Stiles and Boyd, his lips moving slightly.

“As if you would have ever gone to a football game,” Stiles teased, trying to break the tension.

“I resent that!” Boyd objected. He handed Isaac’s notebook back to the boy. “You need to work on your nines a little more, and stop turning your sixes into cats.”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile at the slight look of mischief that passed over Isaac’s face.

Boyd turned back to Stiles. “I can’t believe that you of all people have fallen for his cotton candy dream.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stiles asked.

“You were in Thurmond for six years, how can you believe what he say?”

“Statistically, everything has to return to the mean. It can’t ever be all bad or all good, you know? Eventually things have to come back to the middle.” Stiles let out a sigh. “It’s not that I believe in what Derek’s saying; it’s that I hope he’s right,” Stiles replied. “I really hope he’s right, because the alternative is that we’re stuck hiding out until either our generation dies out or everyone else does. If I don’t believe that something will change, then nothing will.”

Boyd fell silent as Derek came back around the corner. He opened his door, passing the Styrofoam containers to Stiles and climbed into the car.  

Stiles passed the containers to Isaac and Boyd, waiting for Derek to settle in before passing him one.

Inside was a simple meal of bacon, scrambled eggs, and two pancakes.

Stiles held his hand out behind himself and Isaac passed his box back to Stiles. Stiles gave him his pancakes before handing it back, getting a bright smile from Isaac in return.

They ate in quiet, listening to the falling rain.

Derek pulled out a map and began to study it as he ate. After a while, he set the map aside and turned to face them. “Alright, team, our last attempt at finding East River was a bust, but we’ve still got that clue that the Blues gave us: Eddo.”

“We should have bribed them for more information,” Boyd muttered.

“With what?” Derek said. “They wouldn’t take you, Boyd, and you’re our most precious commodity.”

Boyd gave Derek an unamused look.

“Did they spell Eddo out for you? Is it one ‘d’ or two?” Stiles asked. “Because if this is an actual clue, it could make a difference.”

Boyd and Derek shared a look.

“Well… crap,” Derek said.

Stiles felt a tug at his jacket sleeve. He turned to see Isaac leaning forward in his seat, holding his notebook out for him to take. On the page, he had written down _E-D-O_.

“Nice job, Isaac,” Derek said, his voice full of pride. “Good thing one of us was listening.” He turned to look at Stiles. “It’s not much, but that’s the only clue that we got. Well, that and if we hit Raleigh we’d gone too far south. We had to _beg_ for that.”

“They could have been pulling our leg,” Boyd said. “If East River is so great, why were they leaving?”

“To go home,” Derek reminded him.

“What were you guys thinking?” Stiles asked, taking the map from Derek and looking at the chaotic mess of lines. “What theory were you working with?”

“We ran across the kids right after the Ohio state line,” Derek said. “They were coming from the east and heading west, and if you add that to the other bit about D.C. and Raleigh, then it’s likely they came from West Virginia, Virginia, or Maryland.”

“ _I_ think it’s a code,” Boyd chimed in. “A cipher of some kind.” He straightened in his seat, turning to face Stiles. A smile spread across his lips, but it wasn’t comforting; it was menacing. “Speaking of codes, didn’t the League break you out because you were a world-class code breaker?”

 _Crap_ , Stiles thought.

“I didn’t say world-class—” Stiles started.

“Could you take a stab at it?” Derek asked, a hint of hope in his voice.

“Sure,” Stiles said. He turned to Isaac. “Can I see the notebook again?”

The boy passed him the notebook.

Stiles looked down at the letters, his mind scrambling for possibilities. He could feel their eyes on him, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he fought to ignore their gazes.

Boyd snorted. “Looks like the League picked a lemon.”

“Hey,” Derek said warningly. “We’ve been mulling over the damn thing for two weeks and we have nothing. You can’t even give him two minutes to think about it?”

“It could be a Virginian area code,” Stiles suggested. “If you translate the letters into corresponding numbers, you could get an area code.”

“But then that’d be 5-4-15, and there are no area codes that around here that are four digits,” Boyd argued. “So 5-4-15 doesn’t work.”

“But five-four-zero does,” Stiles pointed out. “People shorten zero to ‘O’, so in translating the letters to numbers, it could be five-four-O; five-four-zero.”

Derek looked over his shoulder at Boyd. “Five-forty. Sound familiar to you?”

Boyd shook his head.

Stiles looked at the older boy. “You’re from Virginia?”

“I’m from _Northern_ Virginia,” Boyd corrected.

“Five-forty is western Virginia,” Stiles answered. “Eagle Rock, Winchester, Orange, Madison, Lexington—”

 _Salem_ , he thought. _Home_.

“It covers a lot of land,” Stiles said, pointing it out on the map. “A lot of cities and towns, but there’s also a lot of underdeveloped land—not a bad place to hide out.”

“Is that so?” Derek muttered. His pale eyes flicked up to Stiles’. “Did you grow up around here?”

“No,” Stiles lied.

Derek looked like he was about to push the subject, but he let it drop.

“It’s still a lot of ground to cover,” Stiles said apologetically.

“Hey, it’s a start,” Derek said, offering Stiles a kind smile. “And more than we had before.”

He folded up the map again and stowed it away in the glove box. He checked the alleyway one more time before turning on the engine.

The jeep sputtered to life, the rumble of the engine rolling through them as he turned onto the road.

“Where are we going?” Boyd asked.

“It’s a place I know,” Derek answered. “I’ve stayed there before. The drive shouldn’t take us long—maybe two hours. But if I get lost, one of you two Virginians is going to have to step up to the plate and help me out.”

Stiles blinked in surprise. It had been a long time since he’d been labelled that—a person with a home. He had spent so long surrounded by grey walls, barbed wire, muddy paths, and concrete floors that he had forgotten what home was like; he couldn’t remember the smell of his mum’s freshly-baked cookies, the colour of the lounge room wall, the order of the pictures that hung on the wall up the staircase—little by little those memories had been stripped from him.

 

 

Stiles’ back was pressed against his seat, his throat tight and his anxiety tightening his chest as they drove down the highway. They passed signs to James Madison University and Harrisonburg, praying that no one would see them. The highway was eerily deserted: the road covered in dust and cars left abandoned in lanes; metal carcases torn apart, windows smashed in, and gas tanks empty.

Further up, the highway was closed and temporary road signs directed them towards the streets through town.

As Derek turned off the highway, they drove past a large chain-link fence with a ragged patchwork of worn pieces of paper tied and taped to it. Faded photographs of children, signs that were smeared with pain that had been washed away by the rain, posters and long-forgotten stuffed covered the fence.

Stiles felt a chill claw at his spine as they passed the memorial

“What do they say?” Boyd asked, squinting out the window as they passed.

“Missing,” Derek read. He tilted his sunglasses down as he read the words painted across the large sign that thundered as the wind blew it back against the fence. “Matthew 19:14.”

“‘ _Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”_ ’,” Stiles recited.

The pieces of paper crackled as they flapped in the wind. Cardboard signs and old toys sat on the pavement, leaning against the fence.

The children weren’t missing; they were taken. In one way or another, these children had been taken.

Stiles swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, turning away from the stretch of fence.

They all fell into silence as Derek drove on through the streets.

 

 

Stiles must have fallen asleep, because the only remembers waking up as the Jeep slowed and turned into the parking lot before a large white warehouse that had once been a Wallmart.

The large blue sign still clung to the building but aside from that it was unrecognisable. Stray metal shopping carts were scattered across the parking lot, and a few abandoned cars were parked out the front. The large glass windows by the door had been smashed in and boarded up again.

“Alright, you three wait here while I check it out,” Derek said as he parked the Jeep and got out.

Stiles felt a small hand tug at his sleeve, turning to look at Isaac’s worried face.

“I’ll go with him,” Stiles volunteered, shoving open his door. He paused for a second, leaning back in and looking at Boyd. “If we’re not out in ten minutes—”

Boyd nodded, already knowing how that sentence ended.

“Honk the horn three times if there’s any trouble,” Stiles said.

Boyd nodded again. “Just be careful.”

Stiles nodded back, closing the door and burying his hands in his pockets as he hurried across the parking lot.

Derek must have heard him because he stopped by one of the trolley bays and waited for Stiles. “Any way I could convince you to go back to Roscoe?”

“Nope,” Stiles said. “Come on.”

Derek fell into step behind Stiles.

“You asked me how I knew this place…” Derek started, leading the way towards the old store’s door.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said quietly. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s okay, Green,” Derek replied. “I just don’t know where to begin. You know how Boyd and I went into hiding? Well, it wasn’t exactly a good time. Boyd, at least, got to hide out at his grandparent’s place in Pennsylvania.”

“And I take it you had the pleasure of hiding out in this fine American establishment?” Stiles guessed.

“Among other places,” Derek admitted. “I don’t like talking about it in front of Isaac because I don’t want him to believe that this is what his life is going to be like.”

“But you can’t lie to him,” Stiles said. “I know you don’t want to scare him, but you can’t pretend like his life isn’t going to be hard.”

Derek turned away from him, his jaw tensing as if he were biting back a retort.

“Hey, I get it,” Stiles said quietly. “I’m on your side. But you can’t act like it’s going to be easy. Don’t do that to him—don’t set him up to be crushed. I was in a camp with thousands of kids who grew up thinking Mum and Dad were going to come and get them, and they— _we_ —are all damaged because of that broken hope.”

“Hey,” Derek said softly, all traced of anger vanishing as he turned to look at Stiles. “You are _not_ damaged.”

Stiles was about to argue, but his words were cut short as he turned towards the door.

Someone had tried to unhook the automatic doors from their rails, but had given up, leaving the doors ajar and the glass shattered. Shards of glass were scattered across the cement floors, blown dozens of feet from the black frames.

They stepped through the broken doors, pausing as they looked down at the scattered footprints that disturbed the dusty floor—all sizes and shapes, from the zig-zagging pattern on the sole of a man’s hiking boot, to the swirling lines of a young child’s tennis shoe. The footprints fanned out in every direction.

“They could be old,” Stiles whispered.

Derek nodded, his pale eyes scanning the open space o the store. He leant in closer to Stiles and whispered. “Stay beside me.”

The shopping carts had been stacked by the door, shoved into the check out lanes in order to form a barricade across the front of the store.

Derek motioned for Stiles to follow him as he climbed up and over the nearest register’s conveyer belt.

The store’s power had been shut off a long time ago by the looks of it. The broken plastic coverings of the LED lights hung from the ceiling and the lightbulbs were cracked or shattered. Christmas lights had been strung back and forth across the ceiling.

Scattered pieces of clothing hung from racks, others lay crumpled on the floor while the metal racks were broken or overturned.

Dry husks of leaves rattled as they danced across the floor.

Stiles’ eyes were drawn to the thick vines that were coiled around the pillars, covering the dull cement in vivid green leaves.

Something was off.

The hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck rose, his chest tightening as his heart hammered against his ribs.

He crept forward to Derek’s side and gently balled his fingers in the soft, worn leather of his jacket.

Derek spun around, his pale eyes lit up with panic and concern.

Stiles jerked his hand back, balling his hands into fists by his sides.

“I think we should leave,” Stiles whispered. “Something about this place doesn’t feel right.”

“We’re okay,” Derek reassured him. He reached out for Stiles, letting his hand hang in the air.

Stiles didn’t know if Derek wanted him to take his hand, or if he was just gesturing for Stiles to follow him. He pretended he hadn’t seen it, following Derek through the overturned aisles and towards the back of the store.

His feet stumbled beneath him as he slowed to a halt, something in his peripheral vision catching his attention. He turned and took a few steps away from Derek.

Overhead was a dust skylight, the dim light illuminating the black smears across the floor, bold letters that read: GET OUT NOW.

“Derek,” Stiles rasped.

The older boy stepped over to his side, looking down at the message. “It could be old,” he said.

Stiles crouched down, brushing his fingers across the floor. He pulled his hand back, turning it over to revel the black paint that stained his fingertips.

Fresh paint.

He turned to look at Derek, but the words ever left his mouth. He felt a warm tug at his core, but before he could react he was hurled backwards.

A cry escaped his lips as he was sent flying back across the store.

“Stiles!” Derek cried out.

Stiles caught a glimpse of him through the shelves.

The older boy’s eyes lit up blue as he reached for Stiles, using his powers to pull him closer. He wrapped his arms around Stiles, holding him close and shielding him with his body as they crashed into clothes racks and broken shelves.

Derek held a hand out in front of himself, trying his best to shove aside the shelves and racks before they hit them.

Derek arched over him as the two of them slammed into the wall of registers.

They collapsed to the ground with a pained grunt.

Derek pushed himself onto his hands and knees, leaning over Stiles.

“You okay?” he asked, panting. When Stiles didn’t reply, Derek reached out, cupping his face and looking at him with wide aventurine eyes. “Stiles?”

Before Stiles could answer, Derek was knocked onto his back.

The boys cried out as something bore down on them, an invisible power that pinned them to the ground.

Derek strained against the force, gritting his teeth as he tried to lift his arms.

“Cut it out!” Derek shouted, his voice booming through the store.

The next thing Stiles heard silenced everything: the unmistakable click of a cocked gun.

His heart sank into his gut, the air knocked from his lungs as he saw dark figures emerge from the shadows.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, just as the world erupted into light.

Stiles gasped as air flooded his lungs, the weight lifted from his chest.

He rolled onto his side, shielding his head as the strings of fairy lights and long-dead lights were brought to life.

The shadowy figures around them reared back, their weapons clattering as they hit the floor.

Stiles turned looking at the boy who stood by the counter, eyes lit up with a golden glow.

“Isaac!” Stiles shouted over the buzz of electricity. “Let go!”

The boy couldn’t hear him. His eyes were wide, dazed.

Boyd reached for the boy. He stopped, shielding his face as the lights overhead shattered, raining glass over him.

The metal beneath Isaac’s touch began to melt, dripping around the boy’s hand with a molten glow.

“Let go, Isaac!” Derek shouted behind him.

Stiles scrambled to his feet. He ran forward, wrapping his arm around the boy and pulling him away from the register.

There was a thundering crash as one of the light panels crashed to the ground where Isaac had stood.

The store went dark.

Everything was silent.

The only thing Stiles could hear was his own ragged breathing and the thundering heartbeat in his ears.

He held Isaac close, cradling the boy’s face into the curve of his neck as he slowly woke from his trance, shaking and sniffing back tears.

“It’s okay,” Stiles whispered, resting his cheek atop the boy’s messy curls. “You’re okay.”

Boyd knelt beside them, offering Stiles the boy’s discarded yellow glove.

Stiles took it with a quiet ‘thank you’.

Boyd reached forward, gently rubbing circles on the younger boy’s back as Isaac clung to Stiles’ jacket.

Stiles lifted his head, looking back to where Derek was struggling to his feet.

In the dim light that bled through the front windows, Stiles could see their attackers: four figures dressed in layers of black, guns in their hands; raised and ready.

Stiles swallowed hard, his gut twisting as his mind screamed at him to grab the others and run.

But he didn’t.

Something was off about them; they were too short, too lean. As they stepped forward, the light revealed their faces.

They weren’t PSFs.

They weren’t grown-ups.

They were kids.


	9. Chapter 9

The four strangers took another step closer. In the dim light, Stiles could see their mis-matched dark clothes, the grime on their faces, and their thin limbs and hollow cheeks.

They were all boys, all around Stiles’ age.

“I told you we should have checked the Jeep first,” one of the boys said.

One of them turned to retort, but Derek was on his feet, livid with rage. “What the hell are you idiots trying to pull?”

The boys began to shout back, but Stiles was distracted by Isaac’s quiet sob.

Stiles loosened his hold on the boy, sitting him back and looking down at his tear-stained face.

The boy held his hands before him, staring down at them as if they were covered in blood.

Stiles took Isaac’s hands in his, craning his neck to look the boy in the eye. “It’s okay,” Stiles whispered. “It’s okay.”

His hands were trembling, his skin hot to touch. Isaac’s eyes drifted to the matching dusty yellow glove in Stiles’ grasp.

Stiles held it out, helping the boy slide it onto his hand. He rose to his feet and held out his arms, letting Isaac wrap his arms around his waist.

The boy buried his face in the grey fabric of the dress Stiles wore as a shirt, his tears seeping into the cotton.

Stiles held him close as he guided him around the rubble that barricaded the entrance. He walked over to Derek’s side, Boyd following.

“You three okay?” Derek asked, turning away from the four kids.

Boyd nodded.

Derek’s gaze shifted to Isaac, the boy hugging Stiles’ waist tight.

“He’s alright,” Stiles answered for him. “No burns, just shaken up.”

“And you?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said. “You?”

“I’m pissed,” Derek answered.

Two of the four boys stepped forward. They looked to be brothers – twins, actually. They had light brown hair that was cut short, dark brown eyes and square jaws. The only difference between the two was that one had a navy-blue bandanna tied around his throat.

“I’m sorry, man,” one of them—the one with the bandanna—said.

“Do you always do crap like this?” Derek asked. “Do you just attack people without checking to see if they’re armed—or if they’re like you?”

The other boy bristled. Anger flashed in his dark eyes as he stepped forward. “You could have been skip tracers for all we knew. Besides, it was your Yellow that did all of _this_ —” He gestured at the broken shelves, fallen ceiling panels, and shattered lights.

“He wouldn’t have panicked if you hadn’t pulled guns on us,” Derek argued.

“We wouldn’t have had to use them if you had just paid attention to our warning and left,” the boy argued.

“Because you gave us so much time to get away,” Stiles drolled sarcastically.

“Maybe you should keep that kid on a leash,” the boy said bitterly.

Stiles ushered Isaac behind himself. “Or maybe I should break off the nearest rusty pipe, wrap it in barbed wire and shove it up you a—”

“Okay,” Derek shouted, stepping between the two of them. “Look, we could go back and forth for hours, and it wouldn’t accomplish a thing.”

Stiles exhaled heavily, feeling his shoulders drop as he took a step back and wrapped an arm around Isaac’s shoulders, holding him close.

Derek turned to face the twins. “We were hoping to spend the night here, but if you’ve claimed it or whatever, then we’ll go. But all we’re asking for is shelter.”

The boy with the bandanna stepped forward, setting a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

The other boy turned to look at him, a conversation passing in a shared glance. His jaw was tense as he let out a sigh and nodded.

“Shelter, the boy in the bandanna repeated.

“We just want to stay here a night,” Derek said. “We’re not looking for trouble.”

The other boy gave Stiles a once-over, his eyes drifting to where one hand held Isaac close and the other was balled into a fist. His eyes drifted back to Stiles’ eyes, meeting his fierce glare.

“Looks like you already found it.”

 

 

“Let me get this straight,” Boyd started, passing the container of stale Pringles to Isaac and watching as he carried it with both hands over to where he sat a few feet from the group with his notebook and a bottle of water. “You were being moved from one camp to another?”

“No, not another camp,” the boy with the bandanna – Ethan – said. “They packed as many of us as they could fit into the back of a bus and told us we were being brought into a testing facility in Maryland.”

“I’m surprised they even told you that much,” Derek said. “Are you sure that’s where they were taking you?”

“No,” his brother – Aiden – cut in. “It was clear they had orders to get rid of us.”

“And a storm flooded the road, flipping the bus and allowing you to escape?”

“We’ve been holed up here for five months,” Ethan finished.

They had gathered in the back corner of the store where the four boys had set up a small camp; inflatable blue pool rafts had been set up as beds with blankets tossed across them, and a few empty boxes of crackers and rations of food stacked in the corner by a cooler. On top of the cooler sat a small wireless radio and a red camping lantern.

“It took a while for us to get a message to our dad, to tell him we were okay.”

“How did you manage that?” Stiles asked.

“The government cracked down on the internet, so we put an ad in the paper with a message that only our dad would understand,” Ethan explained.

“How did you pay for it?” Derek asked.

“We didn’t,” Ethan said. “Slip Kid did.”

“Slip Kid?” Derek said, stunned. “You’ve actually met the Slip Kid?”

“Yeah, we found the camp after the bus crashed. He took us in and organised everything for us.”

“Who is he?” Derek asked.

The four boys exchanged looks.

“Let me guess, you can’t tell us,” Stiles said.

“It’s a safety precaution,” one of the other boys explained. “East River is a safe haven for kids of all colours, and when you leave you have to swear not to give away the names of anyone there or its location. If you’re looking for East River, you have to find it yourself.”

“If you ever find it, I’m sure they’d be happy to have you,” Aiden purred, reaching out and brushing his hand across the nape of Stiles’ neck. “It’s safe there. Better than being caught out here. There’s a tribe of Blues near Norfolk—nasty kids. They steal the clothes right off your back. There’s a tribe of Yellows around here for a while, but one of the kids we were with in camp said they were all taken in by PSFs.”

Stiles stiffened, Aiden’s hand lingering on his neck. A flash of anger pulsing though him. He felt the trickle at the back of his minds, the buzz rattling in his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut as the flash of images flooded his mind: a glimpse of an overturned yellow bus through the pouring rain, the dancing flames of a campfire as it crackled and reached towards the starry night sky, and the faces of the boys as they leant in around what looked like a clock radio.

Stiles pulled away. He blinked the dull orange glow from his eyes and looked up to see Derek tense as his eyes flicked towards Aiden and darkened with anger.

Aiden was dazed, his eyes glazed as he stared into oblivion.

Stiles felt his heart hammer against his chest.

Beside him, Boyd shuffled closer.

 _Too close_ , Stiles thought, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the heel of his palm of his forehead. His mind was throbbing, the monster inside trying to claw its way out, and Stiles knew he couldn’t hold it back for long.

“What was the name of the Yellow girl who worked in the kitchens?” Ethan asked his brother. “Her name started with a K.”

Aiden shook himself from his daze. “Uh—Kira.”

Derek straightened. “Kira Yukimura?”

“You know her?”

“Yeah, she and I travelled together for a while,” Derek answered. “When we got caught, we were sent to different camps. What happened to her?”

Ethan’s eyes fell to the ground. “She was on one of the first busses to Maryland.”

“She’s the one who told us about this place,” Aiden explained. “I liked her. She knew how to use her powers—unlike your pet here.” He nodded to where Isaac sat a few feet away, working through the pages of math problems Derek had written for him. “You might as well take him back; he’s not going to do you any good.”

“You have two seconds to take that back, or I’ll make you regret it,” Stiles growled.

“Do it,” Boyd whispered beside him.

Derek set a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, stopping him from following through on his threat.

Stiles let out a heavy breath, but he didn’t pull away from Derek.

Aiden held his hands up. “All I’m saying is there’s something wrong with him. He’s not like the others, is he? Did they do testing on him?”

“He’s mute, not deaf,” Derek said, his voice flat as he struggled to stay passive. “And I promise you, he’s probably five times smarter than the seven of us combined.”

He turned away from Aiden, leaning in close to Stiles as he whispered, “Why don’t you take Isaac?”

Stiles nodded, gently patting the hand Derek had on his shoulder before rising to his feet. He tugged at the hem of the grey dress, feeling the leering gazes linger as he walked over to Isaac’s side and held his hand out.

The boy reached up for his hand without looking.

Stiles stared at the yellow glove that was streaked with dirt. He grabbed the fingertips of the oversized glove and pulled it off the boy’s hand.

He didn’t know why he was doing it—maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had been so close to Derek without losing control, or maybe he was sick of seeing the boy just as scared as he was to touch anyone.

He took Isaac’s hand in his own.

Isaac flinched, his sapphire blue eyes wide with shock as he turned to see his bare hand in Stiles’. He seemed to panic slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

Stiles gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Come on,” he whispered, nodding towards the open store floor.

Isaac’s face brightened. He pushed himself to his feet and shoved his notebook into his pocket.

“Don’t go far,” Derek called after them.

“ _Don’t go far_ ,” the other boys echoed before busting into laughter.

Isaac screwed up his face in disgust.

“I know what you mean,” Stiles said, taking the boy as far away from them as he could.

 

 

They spent ten minutes just walking through the rows of shelves.

Isaac kept looking at their linked hands as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Every now and then, bargain bins full of kickballs or stuffed toys, or the strips of knickknacks that hung on the ends of aisles would catch Isaac’s attention, but his eyes darkened as he dropped his gaze.

Finally, they found themselves walking down a long aisle of kitchen supplies.

Stiles felt the boy gently tug at his arm. He turned to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes drifted to the old yellow glove that hung in Stiles’ other hand. He looked from the hand that Stiles held to the yellow glove.

“What’s so bad about this?” Stiles asked.

Isaac gently tugged his hand free, turning towards the shelf and pulling down a box. He pulled it open, shovelling out handfuls of foam packaging before pulling out the silver toaster inside. He set it down on the floor, tugging off his other glove and pressing the palms of his bares hand against the glossy steel siding.

His eyes lit up with a golden glow as the insides of the toaster began to glow red. The plastic coating of the cord began to melt and the insides of the toaster began to warp. A thin wisp of smoke rose from it and Isaac set it down, pulling his hands back and staring at the fried machine.

He looked up at Stiles, his eyes full of pain as if he were trying to say, _See?_

“But you won’t do that to me,” Stiles said, reaching for his hand again. “You don’t have to worry about hurting me, because I know you never would.”

Isaac didn’t move.

Stiles let out a soft sigh and sat down on the floor beside him. “Did anyone ever tell you the story of the scorpion and the frog?”

Isaac shook his head.

“A scorpion asks a frog to carry it across a river. The frog hesitates. He says that it is the scorpion’s nature to sting and he does not want to die. The scorpion argues that if it did sting the frog, they would both drown. So, the frog agrees to carry the scorpion across the river.”

Stiles paused for a second, considering the ending of the story. He looked at the boy, his heart aching.

It was not in Isaac’s nature to hurt anyone; that’s not how this story ends.

“The frog reaches the other side of the river and the scorpion climbs off his back, thanks him and continues on,” Stiles finished, twisting the ending. “Just because it’s in our nature to hurt people, doesn’t mean we will.”

Isaac looked up at him, his deep blue eyes swirling with emotion.

“I know it’s scary when things are out of your control, but it’s going to be okay,” Stiles reassured him. He held his hand out again. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

Isaac bowed his head. He hesitated for a second before setting his bare hand in Stiles’.

“Come on,” Stiles said softly, rising to his feet and helping Isaac to his. “Let’s see if we can find anything useful.”

Isaac stopped at the end of the aisle.

Stiles turned to look at him.

A soft blush coloured the young boy’s pale cheeks as he pointed up at a pair of pink rubber gloves that hung from a hook among plain yellow ones.

“These ones?” Stiles asked, pulling them down from the hook. He tore the plastic tab and cardboard from them and held them out to the boy.

A sweet smile lifted Isaac’s rosy cheeks as he took them from Stiles.

Stiles looked down at himself.

“Let’s see if we can find some clothes, huh?” Stiles said, leading Isaac out of the aisle and across the store to where a bunch of clothes racks were overturned.

Stiles let go of Isaac’s hand, rummaging through the piles of clothes on the floor until he found some that seemed close to his size—a couple pairs of jeans, a red hoodie, and some plaid shirts. He pulled on a pair of jeans and tucked the hem of the dress into the waistband. He found a red plaid shirt and pulled it on over the top before tugging his black hoodie back on.

He searched the shelves, finding misplaced packets of chips, a few new notebooks for Isaac, and scattered paperback books. He picked one out of the pile, dusting off the cover.

He blinked in surprise as he looked down at the familiar title.

 _Watership Down_.

He set it aside in their pile, thinking to give it to Boyd later.

Isaac held the pink gloves to his chest as he helped Stiles dig through the piles of clothes and pull out jeans, shirts, and socks for Derek and Boyd. Isaac set them aside in a pile and began to carefully fold them.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile as he watched the boy.

Isaac straightened, something out the corner of his eye catching his attention. He set the pink gloves down on top of the folded clothes and rose to his feet.

Stiles followed him over to the rack that had caught his attention. On the end of it, a glittery silver tutu hung from an otherwise empty rack. The top layer was made of a glitter-covered fabric and decorated with shining gemstones with layers of silver-grey and sky-blue tulle beneath it. It had an elastic band around the waist with a silky white ribbon that tied up at the back.

Isaac reached out to stroke it, only to pull his hand back at the last second.

“It’s beautiful,” Stiles whispered, looking down at Isaac.

His thoughts were written all over his face; he thought he didn’t deserve it. He thought it was too nice, too new, too pretty for him.

Stiles felt a wave of anger flood his veins. He took the tutu off the rack, pulling it off the hanger and holding it out for Isaac to step into.

“Come on,” he said encouragingly. “Try it on.”

Isaac hesitated for a second before stepping into the skirt. He let Stiles pull it up to his waist and tie the ribbon into a bow at the back.

“Give me a twirl,” Stiles said, smiling as the boy spun around on the spot.

Isaac stumbled to a halt, bowing his head. He gently stroked the skirt, his mind turning over with thoughts he couldn’t say.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked.

The boy looked up at him with eyes that seemed to say, _I can’t_.

“You like it, right?”

The boy nodded.

“Then that’s all that matters,” Stiles said. “Come on, let’s see what else we can find.”

Stiles dug through bargain bins full of shoes, trying to find matching pairs that would fit. He pulled out two white shoes with Velcro straps, offering them to Isaac.

Isaac sat down on the dusty floor, pulling off his old, worn shoes and trying on his new ones. He stood up and took a few steps back and forth. His jaw dropped as he realised the soles lit up. A delighted expression lit his face as he began to walk back and forth, making the shoes flash as he did.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile.

Something else caught Isaac’s attention and he took off running. A moment later, he came back, cradling something small in his hands.

“What did you find?” Stiles asked.

The boy held out the small plastic keychain in the shape of a howling grey wolf. He gestured towards Stiles, encouraging him to take the keychain.

“For me?” Stiles said as he took the keychain.

Isaac pulled his notepad from his pocket and began to write something. He handed it to Stiles for him to read.

‘ _Wolves protect._ ’

“I think you should give this to Derek,” Stiles said. “He’s the one who protects us.”

Isaac wrote something down before giving his notebook to Stiles again.

‘ _So do you_.’

Stiles looked down at the keychain in his hand, coiling his fingers around it as he looked up at the boy’s sweet smile.

“You two have been busy, I see.”

Derek leant against the aisle endcap, his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrows raised.

Isaac leapt to his feet, running over to the older boy’s side with the bundle of folded clothes and socks.

“Thank you,” Derek said as he took the pile of clothes from the boy. He let out a low chuckle. “I leave you two alone for a minute and you clean the place out.”

Stiles lifted himself up off the floor, shoving the keychain into his pocket and watching as Isaac gently tugged at Derek’s jacket to get his attention again.

The younger boy shuffled back a few steps and jumped on the spot, making his shoes light up.

“Whoa,” Derek said, his face lit up with joy. “That’s so cool.”

Isaac reached up, taking the pile of clothes from Derek and hurrying away.

“Watch where you’re going,” Derek called as the boy took off between the aisles. He waited for Stiles to step over to his side. “Thank you for taking him. I just wanted to ask them some more questions.”

They started back through the aisles and back to the corner of the store that was set up as a camp. “And you didn’t want Isaac to hear?”

Derek glanced down at his feet, scuffing the sole of his boot across the dusty floor. “That, and you were kind of distracting.”

“What?” Stiles said, taken aback. “I’m sorry for threatening them or whatever, but—”

“No, you’re just…” His eyes flicked to Stiles’, his cheeks flushed pink. “…distracting.”

“Did you get anything useful out of them?” Stiles asked, trying to change the subject.

“The names of a few of the friendlier tribes, a few cities that are under lockdown, stuff like that. Nothing about Slip Kid, though. Apparently, they take that oath not to reveal any information pretty seriously.”

“They really wouldn’t give you any more information?” Stiles said, feeling dejected.

“Aiden made us an offer—a trade—but we turned him down.”

“What did he want?” Stiles asked.

Derek met his gaze for a second before dropping his eyes to the floor. “It doesn’t matter. If those idiots can find East River on their own, then so can we.”

Stiles studied him for a second. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Derek said.

“Why are you looking for the Slip Kid?” Stiles asked. “Besides wanting to help Boyd and Isaac get somewhere safe and get Miguel’s letter to his father. Is it because you want to go home, or…?”

Derek raised a brow. “Any reason you’re asking?”

“The questions you were asking them about the camp, it seemed like you were trying to figure something out,” Stiles pointed out.

Derek stopped at the end of the aisle, watching as Isaac pulled back the flap of their tent and climbed in, holding out the pile of clothes for Boyd to see.

The lantern inside lit Boyd’s delighted face as he pulled the younger boy into a tight hug.

“Why do _you_ want to find the Slip Kid?” Derek asked after a while.

 _Because I want to know how to control my abilities before they destroy everything and everyone I care about_ , Stiles thought. _Because I want to fix what happened to my parents._ “Because I want to go home.”

Derek nodded thoughtfully.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Stiles pointed out.

“I want to find Slip Kid for the same reason,” Derek said, walking over their tent and holding open the flap. “I want to go home.”

There was something about the way he had said it, something about his hesitation, that sounded like he wasn’t telling him the whole truth.

Stiles stood still, wondering if Derek had picked up on Stiles’ half-truth, the same way Stiles had picked up on his.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can skip the essay/book report bit (you'll know what I mean when I get to it), all the useful information in it is talked about afterwards. :)

_“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed._ ”

Stiles glanced down at the boy curled up against his side. He shut the book, carefully setting it aside before laying Isaac down and pulling the mountain of blankets over him.

Stiles looked across the tent to where Derek was fast asleep on the floor next to Isaac.

He laid on his back, his head tilted to the side and one hand resting against his chest.

Stiles paused for a moment, watching him.

The dull light of the lantern made him look so frail and defenceless. The shadow under his eyes were darker, and his tan skin was covered in cuts and bruises from being hurled across the store. He watched as his chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his face calm.

Stiles reached out to him.

He froze. His fingers hovered above Derek’s, so close he could feel the warmth of the older boy’s hand. He felt the buzz in the back of his mind as the invisible hands clawed their way forward.

 _No,_ he thought, jerking his hand back and turning away.

He kicked off the blanket that Isaac had insisted on sharing and lifted the flap of the tent, stepping out into the bitter cold store.

He pulled his jacket tight around himself and buried his hands in his pockets.

He had to be on his own.

He heard Aiden and the others stir in their tents. Their voices were low murmurs, indistinguishable from one another.

Stiles crept around their tent, shuffling across the dusty floor as he looked at the dim light of the lantern in their tent. The whispers grew louder the close he got.

“We don’t owe them anything,” Aiden growled.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat, his pulse hammering in his ears as anger flowed through his veins. He clenched his fists at his side.

He took another step forward but stopped mid-stride.

Boyd had beaten him to guard duty. He sat on the ground, leaning back against the end of a shelf with his legs crossed in front of him and Isaac’s workbook resting his lap. He was wearing a pair of glasses with thick black rims that he had found in a second-hand collection bin near the far door. His head was bowed, tilted slightly as he tried to listen in to the conversation.

He was so engrossed in the conversation that he didn’t notice Stiles. He jumped out of his skin when he saw the boy.

“Isaac?”

“Isaac?” Stiles whispered back. “Really?”

“Shhh,” the boy hissed.

Stiles rolled his eyes and sat down next to Boyd, taking the workbook from his hand. He turned the page without looking at what Boyd had been writing.

‘ _What are you doing?_ ’ Stiles wrote, turning the book around for Boyd to see.

The boy just glared at him, refusing to take the pencil when Stiles offered it.

‘ _Do you think they’re up to something?_ ’ Stiles asked.

Boyd let out a heavy sigh, irritated, and nodded.

‘ _Me too_.’ Stiles wrote. ‘ _Come with me._ ’

Stiles nodded towards the shelves.

Boyd reluctantly followed, rising to his feet and dusting himself down.

Stiles led the way into the shelves, hiding out of sight of the others while also keeping the tents in sight.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Boyd said when they were out of earshot. “About them.”

“Do you think they’re going to pull something?” Stiles asked.

“I think they’re going to try to take Roscoe,” Boyd replied.

Stiles nodded. He glanced over at Boyd.

“Nice glasses,” he said quietly.

Boyd quickly pulled them off his face and shoved them in his pocket.

“I wasn’t teasing,” Stiles said. “They really do look good on you. Is the prescription alright?”

Boyd nodded.

“That’s good,” Stiles said, turning his attention back to the dull glow of the lantern in the tent.

His eyes rolled over Stiles, but Stiles’ gaze was focused on the tents.

“You should get some sleep,” Boyd said, a gruff edge to his voice. “What are you even doing up anyway?”

Stiles gave a half-hearted shrug. “Same as you, I guess. Make sure no one gets mugged, beaten or murdered in their sleep. Watching to see if those kids are the assholes I think they are.”

Boyd snorted, turning his head away to hide his smirk.

The tension between them seemed to ease.

Boyd turned to look at the blue tent that Derek and Isaac were sleeping in. “I don’t understand why he came back here.”

“This is where Derek and his friend were captured, isn’t it?” Stiles asked, piecing together the earlier conversation.

Boyd nodded. “He never told me the whole story, but I _think_ what happened was that he and Kira were travelling together when they ran into a group of Blues. Instead of recruiting them, like Derek hoped they would, they beat the shit out of them and stole everything they had—food, water, packs, family pictures, everything. They found this place and hid out for a few days trying to recover and regroup, but they were in such a bad shape that they couldn’t fight of the skip tracers when they came.”

Stiles felt his heart sink into his stomach. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, his eyes drifting towards the tent.

“Derek thinks that the Blues called them in,” Boyd added. “That they got a cut of the reward.”

 _How could anyone turn in another kid?_ Stiles thought.

“I trust Derek,” Stiles said quietly. “He’s a good person, but he’s easy to read—and other people don’t have the best intentions.”

“Exactly,” Boyd said. “He’s so busy trying to see the good inside of people that he misses the knife they’re holding in their hand.”

“And even then, he’d probably blame himself for that person having the knife to begin with and apologise for being a target.”

“We both know he’s far from perfect, no matter how hard he tries,” Boyd said, settling down on the ground and leaning back against the empty shelf. “He’s never been one to think things through. He does whatever his gut tells him to, rushes into situations that are out of his control, and then drowns in his own self-pity and guilt when things blow up in his face.”

Stiles sat down across from him, nodding as he toyed with a hole in the sleeve of his new plaid shirt that he hadn’t noticed before. His mind drifted back to the night before, to the heart-breaking guilt in Derek’s voice as he comforted Isaac.

“I can fix that for you later,” Boyd offered, nodding towards the torn fabric. “Just remind me.”

“Who taught you how to sew?” Stiles asked.

Boyd’s eyes darkened.

“I don’t _sew_ ,” he said, his voice stern as he glared at Stiles. “I _stitch_. There’s a difference. Sewing is patterns and embroidery; stitching saves lives.”

After a second, he let out a deep sigh and relaxed. His shoulders relaxed as he looked down at his hands.

“My dad,” he said. “He taught me how to stitch before I went into hiding, in case of emergencies.”

“Your dad’s a doctor?” Stiles asked.

“He’s a trauma surgeon,” Boyd answered, a soft smile playing across his lips as his voice filled with pride. “One of the best in the D.C. area.”

“What about your mum?”

“She used to work in the Department of Defence,” Boyd replied. “But she got fired after she refused to register me and my sisters on the IAAN database. I don’t know what she’s doing now.”

“They sound great,” Stiles said.

“They are,” Boyd said, smiling. He glanced up at Stiles, guessing the question he was dying to ask. “They’re all I have left.”

Stiles blinked in surprise.

“I had three sisters, all younger than me. Two of them were killed by IAAN, and the third—Alicia—she, uh… she was kidnapped when we were younger. We were at the ice rink. She didn’t want to come onto the ice. I took my eyes off her for a second and she was gone. They found her three days later, dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispered.

Boyd blinked back tears.

Stiles dropped his gaze to the workbook in his hands, flipping back through the pages from the start. The first few pages were sketches and mindless doodles that were followed by page after page of math problems. Stiles’ eyes rolled over Derek’s neat handwriting, following the curves of each letter.

 

_Roscoe travelled 118 miles in three hours. How fast was Derek driving?_

_You have five Snickers bars to share with three friends. You cut them in half. How many will each friend get? How can you make sure the leftovers get shared equally so Boyd doesn’t complain?_

 

Stiles couldn’t help but smile.

He turned the page to one filled with a different handwriting, one that was messy and smeared.

 

 _I’m not sure what else can be said about this book that hasn’t been said. I’m  
out of clever things to say, I’m afraid. Jonathan Swift has always been a favourite, but I  
can’t get over how clever his wordplay is throughout the novel. I really can’t  
get over how similar it is to _Robinson Crusoe _at times, especially when he’s on the ship_  
to Lilliput. Though his interaction with the Lilliputians wasn’t the strongest section,  
you would be hard pressed to find equally clever interplay of parody and originality. I   
can see why the book has been studied so carefully by scholars across the years. We  
meet Gulliver as a dreamy young man in search of adventure, trying to get  
anywhere that would involve sea travel, and see him evolve masterfully. If I had to  
name the best section of the book, it would probably be the Laputians section, a  
place I would greatly like to visit, because my own head is often stuck in the clouds,  
and t be able to study philosophy and mathematics all day would be a dream. There was a  
time or two over the course of the novel that I felt Swift had gone overboard and   
missed some opportunities to drive home his idea of what the ideal society should be.  
You, as the reader, are left to figure it out for yourself. This book is perfect if you  
love thought-provoking literature from an objective, rational viewpoint, or if   
you dream about one day travelling the world yourself.

  * _V_



Stiles held out the book for Boyd to see. “This yours?”

“Give me that,” he snapped, his eyes flying wide with panic as he snatched the notebook back.

Stiles felt his gut twist with guilt at the sight of the terror on the boy’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just wondering why you’d be practicing writing essays when you said you don’t think we’d ever go back to school.”

Boyd glared at him, but his stony composure fractured.

“I’m not practicing for school,” he said after a moment. He let out the breath he held and handed the book back to Stiles. “Before… Before camp, my parents thought PSFs were investigating them—which, you know, they were. They sent me to my grandparents’ cabin to hide, and when they started putting pressure on my mum, we found a way to message each other without it being picked up by those policing the internet.”

“You send book reviews?”

“I used to have a laptop and a few wireless internet cards,” he said. “We’d post the reviews as a way of sending messages to each other. Read the first word of every line.”

Stiles picked up the book, rereading the book review. ‘ _I’m out can’t get to you can meet anywhere name place and time missed you love you - V’_.

“Oh.”

“I wanted to write it out now,” Boyd said, “in case I can only get online for a few minutes.”

“That’s pretty smart,” Stiles said, handing the book back to him again.

A soft blush coloured Boyd’s cheeks as he dropped his gaze to the page.

“Why is it signed ‘V’?” Stiles asked.

“Vernon,” he answered. “My full name is Vernon Milton Boyd IV.”

Stiles nodded.

“It’s okay, you can laugh,” Boyd said. “Everyone does.”

“I’m not one to laugh,” Stiles said. “My parents named me Mieczyslaw Germin Stilinski.”

Boyd blinked in confusion. “How did you get ‘Stiles’?”

“My mum’s parents never approved of my mum and dad getting married. My dad thought that naming me after my grandpa would hash things over with them. It, uh… didn’t. And I was stuck with a name I couldn’t pronounce for half my life,” Stiles explained. “So, my mum started calling me my paternal grandpa’s nickname, which was ‘Stiles’, and it kind of stuck.”

“What were your parents like?” Boyd asked.

Stiles felt his chest tighten, his heart skinning into his gut.

“My mum was a teacher,” Stiles said, a smile playing across his lips. “And my dad’s a policeman—Sheriff, actually. When I was younger, I used to sit in his patrol car with him and listen to the—”

His words fell short as the pieces fell into place.

“The radio,” he said. He scrambled to his feet and scurried through the rows to shelves until he found he electronics section he and Isaac had passed earlier. He searched the shelves until he found what he was looking for.

Boyd came rushing over. “What are you—”

Stiles pulled a small box from the back of the shelf, tearing it open and pulling the small radio out of the box.

“I need batteries,” Stiles said insistently.

Boyd sat the lantern down on the shelf, tipping it over and pulling the batteries out of the base. He handed them to Stiles.

Stiles fitted them into place before switching on the radio. He began to tune the radio, listening to the crackle of the static.

“It has to be AM,” he muttered to himself, turning the dial and skirting the little red line across the bar. “FM frequencies don’t go up past 108 or so.”

He slowed down, turning the radio to 540 AM.

He flinched, nearly dropping the radio as the static gave way to a sharp sound.

“You know what that is, right?” Boyd said, excitedly. “It’s a frequency that only Psi brains can hear.”

“Like White Noise,” Stiles said through gritted teeth, bracing himself against the shelf. His head was pounding and his stomach twisted nauseatingly.

“It’s not only that we can hear frequencies that others can’t, but our brains can translate sounds differently,” Boyd continued.

No sooner had the words left his mouth, there was a click and the noise cut off, replaced by by the soft sound of a young man’s voice. “ _If you can hear this, you’re one of us. If you’re one of us, you can find us. Lake Prince, Virginia._ ”

The message played again, as if it knew they needed to hear it again to believe what they were hearing. When it ended, there was another click as it turned back to the static.

Neither of them said anything.

Stiles turned off the radio, his eyes wide as he looked up at Boyd. He let out a breathless sigh, his lips drawn back in a smile as he whispered, “We did it.”

“You did it,” Boyd corrected him, smiling. “You did it, Stiles.”

He felt relief crash over him in waves.

“I’m so happy I could kiss you right now,” Boyd whispered.

Stiles chuckled.

“What are you guys doing?” a familiar voice asked as Derek appeared behind them. His brow was furrowed, his expression torn between confusion and worry. “Is everything okay? What happened?”

“You’re going to want to hear this,” Stiles said, switching the radio on again.


	11. Chapter 11

According to Boyd, Miguel Juarez was the second son in a family of three, and the only one to survive IAAN. His mother had died in a house fire when he was young, and his father had turned him in to the camp as soon as his abilities emerged.

He had a reputation for telling the best stories and etching a replica of the New York City skyline on the blackboard of the classroom that had been converted into their dorm. The PSFs assigned to their room had been so impressed with the sheer detail of his work that they let him finish it.

He also had a reputation for antagonising the camp controllers by using his abilities to lift objects off their belts or out of their pockets or throw things into their paths, so they’d trip and fall in front of everyone. He had taught all the Blues in their dorm how to control their powers.

He was also the first kid the PSFs shot in the back of the head the night the kids broke out of camp.

Derek was silent as they neared Salem’s outer limits. There was tension in the air that only grew the more Boyd talked. Derek’s mood had deteriorated over the course of the past few hours. When Boyd’s stories died out, so did all conversation in the Jeep.

Stiles looked across the Jeep at Derek. His eyes were circled with dark shadows, but he didn’t look so much stressed as he did sad.

“Can you put this back in the glove box?” Derek said, handing Stiles the half-folded map.

Stiles finished folding it up and opened the glove box. He paused, his eyes falling on the folded torn scraps of paper that were nestled atop the stack of maps and crumpled napkins. 

He set the map down, picking up the piece of paper that sat on top.

It was Miguel’s. On the back of the paper, he had managed to write his father’s name in capitol letters and the address that Derek said they had tried. It was crinkled and worn, the folded edge rough with wear.

He was vaguely aware of Derek and Boyd arguing about which would be the best route to Lake Prince.

He wasn’t thinking as he slid his finger under the torn edge and unfolded the letter.

The handwriting was hasty but not messy as Stiles read the first two words: _Dear Dad_.

He didn’t get the chance to read any more. Derek reached over and ripped the paper out of his hand.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, the paper crumpling as he balled his fist around it.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles stammered, stunned. “I just—”

“You just _what_?” Derek barked.

Stiles flinched, sinking back into his seat.

“Derek,” Boyd said tentatively, surprised by his friend’s outburst. “Come on.”

“No, this is serious. We don’t read each other’s letters!”

“Never?” Stiles asked. “What if you can’t find his dad and the letter has some clue about where he might be?”

Derek shook his head.

“He has a point,” Boyd said.

“No,” Derek said with finality.

No one else said anything.

Derek’s jaw tensed, his hands were clenched around the steering wheel. After a second, he reached over and turned on the radio. The song that was playing ended and the radio tuned into a news talk show.

“— _Children are in containment for their own good, not just the safety of the American public. My well-placed sources in the Raeken administration have informed me that all instances in which a child has been removed from rehabilitation early have resulted in their untimely death. There is simply no way to reproduce the routine of medication, exercise, and stimulation these rehab centres are using to keep your children alive_.”

Derek slammed his hand against the volume button, but instead of turning the radio off, it jumped to another channel.

“ _Sources are reporting two Psi fugitives were picked up on the Ohio-West Virginia border, travelling on foot_ —”

Stiles gasped as the car jerked to the side.

Derek slammed the Jeep into park and climbed out of the car, mumbling something about being right back before disappearing into the shadows behind the small brick building.

Stiles shifted in his seat, turning to look at Boyd.

Boyd looked back at him with an expression that mirrored his own confusion.

“You should go after him,” he said.

“Why me?” Stiles asked.

“Because you’re the only one he’ll listen to,” Boyd pointed out.

Stiles thought to argue but didn’t. He shoved open his door and followed Derek. He made his way across the car park, stepping around the grey puddles of water that filled the divots worn into the gravel.

He found Derek in the shadows behind the red brick building, his arms folded across his chest and his back pressed against the wall. His pale eyes stared into oblivion, but the tension hung around him like a cloak.

Stiles swallowed hard against the rising lump in his throat. “Derek?”

“I’m fine,” the boy said quietly. “Go back to the Jeep.”

Stiles didn’t move.

He felt a familiar buzz at the back of his mind, his blood running cold as the tendrils of power began to creep forward. He wanted to see his thoughts, wanted to know what it was that was hurting him so much so that he could find a way to fix it.

Derek’s legs gave way beneath him. He fell to a crouch, then collapse completely to the ground.

Stiles took a step closer, trying to hold himself back as he watched Derek brace his arms against his knees and hang his head.

“You’re right,” Derek said after a moment. “I don’t want to find the Slip Kid just to deliver Miguel’s letter. I don’t even want his help to find my family. I know where they are and how to reach them, I just… I can’t go back home… Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Did Boyd tell you?” Derek asked, not looking up at Stiles. “Did he say anything about me and the League?”

Stiles shook his head.

Derek bit into his lip, nodding slowly. “Robert—my stepdad—knew from the start that the Children’s League was bad news. He said they would use us, said they’d do things to us that were worse than anything Raeken could do. And even after Cora—my little sister…” He cleared his throat. “Even after Cora was gone, he would remind me that no amount of fighting would ever bring her back.”

 _Gone_ , Stiles thought. Another victim of IAAN.

“Laura had already joined the League, and she came back to get me to go with her… And I did.”

Derek rested his head back against the brick wall, his eyes focused on something in the distant field.

“My little sister was gone and I was so angry. I hated everyone and everything, and I bought into all the lies the League fed me. I was with them for weeks, training, letting them turn me into a weapon. Into the kind of person who would take an innocent person’s life because it served their need and what _they_ wanted.” He paused for a moment. “My sister, Laura—she grew more cold and distant until… it was like I didn’t even know her anymore. They turned her into a weapon, and they were doing the same to me.”

“So you got out?”

He nodded. “During one of the training simulations outside,” he said. “I was trying to get back to my mum and Robert when Kate caught me and handed me over to the PSFs. And I can’t go back. I can’t go home until I’ve made things right.”

“What do you mean?”

“While I was with the League, I realised that the only people who were going to help us were ourselves. So I tried—I tried to save the kids in my camp, and I failed. A hundred of us made it out—at most. And you heard what that newscaster said; they’re picking us off, one by one, like rabbits in hunting season.”

He paused, shaking his head as tears welled in his eyes.

“I just want to make things right,” he said. “I want to help. I want to get the kids out of the camps—out of Caledonia, out of Thurmond, out of every camp.”

He looked down at his hands.

“Those kids—the ones they were talking about on the radio—I’m sure they were from Caledonia. I just…”

His voice died away. His shoulders fell.

“Do you think—do you think they regret following me?”

“Not for a second,” Stiles answered. “Derek, listen to me. You didn’t force them to follow you. You only gave them what the PSFs and camp controllers took away from them—a choice. They knew the danger and they knew the consequences, but they chose to follow you. They believed you when you said they’d go home one day.”

“Most of them won’t,” Derek muttered. He shook his head. “It would have been safer to just stay in the camps. They wouldn’t be hunted. They wouldn’t have been killed. They wouldn’t have to fight to stay alive in a world where everyone is scared of them.”

“But isn’t it better to give them that choice?” Stiles asked.

Derek was silent. Finally, he pushed himself back up onto his feet and turned to face Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said quietly. “I shouldn’t have opened his letter. It was none of my business. I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, I’m the one that’s sorry,” Derek said, looking at Stiles with soft eyes. “I didn’t mean to blow up at you like that. It was like my dad was talking through me. I’m sorry.” He took a step closer to Stiles. “We should head back.”

“I think you need another minute,” Stiles said. “Because when you get back in that car, you have people depending on you. You need to be ready for that.”

Derek let heavy sigh falling from his lips. He nodded.

“You don’t have to carry this burden alone. Here—” Stiles gestured at the space between them. “This is a place where you don’t need to lie. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. So, if you need to scream and vent, then do it to me. Don’t shut off and walk away like that. Because one day, you’re going to walk away, and you might not come back.”

Derek bowed his head, his eyes darkening with sorrow. He drew in a deep breath and nodded. When he looked up at Stiles again, he seemed like his old self; centred and in control.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Now, let’s head back.”

He took a step back. The heel of his boot caught the broken concrete. He gasped as he fell backwards.

Derek reached out to grab him.

Stiles didn’t get the chance to warn him; the older boy caught his wrist, the warmth of his touch flooding through Stiles as he fell into Derek’s mind.

He saw a child, barely two years old, strapped into a booster seat in the back of an old black sedan. Beside him was a young girl a few years older than him—Laura.

Her long dark hair was pulled back in a braid that cascaded over her shoulder. Her pale green eyes looked like jade in the glow of daylight, full of worry as she looked from her little brother to their mum.

She held a bloody cloth in her hand, still carefully wiping the smears of blood from the boy’s bottom lip.

The car jolted, letting out a shrill whir before slowing.

“No, no, no, no, no,” their mother begged.

She pulled the car over to the side of the road, shoving the gear into park and hanging her head in her hands. The curtain of her long dark hair fell forward, shielding her face. Her shoulders were trembling as she fought to hold back her sobs.

“Mama?” the young boy whispered.

His sister gently shushed him, leaning forward and resting her hand on her mother’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, mum,” she said softly. “I’ll go find help.”

The woman lets out a breathless laugh, wiping the sleeve of her faded purple cardigan across her tear-stained cheeks. “Thank you, honey, but I need you to stay here and look after your brother, okay?”

“Okay,” Laura agreed. She watched as her mum shoved open the door and stepped out of the car. She reached over and slamming her hand against the lock on her door before crawling over her brother and locking Derek’s door and the driver’s door. She sat back in her seat, taking Derek’s little chubby hand in her own as she said softly, “It’s okay, Der. It’ll be okay.”

They watched as their mum shrugged off her cardigan, revealing the smears of blue, purple and black bruises that marred her arms. She bundled up the fabric and used it to open the hood, coughing as she tried to fan away the plumes of smoke and steam.

They heard him before they saw him, the deep voice that rang out across the road.

“Need some help, darlin’?”

They turned to see an old red ute parked across the road. The driver was a tall man with long dark hair and a thick beard. His clear blue eyes caught the light as he hurried across the road and over to their mother’s side.

They disappeared out of sight behind the hood of the car, their voices were quiet mumble as they drifted into the car.

“I don’t like this,” Laura said.

A moment later, their mum and the stranger stepped around to the side of the car. The man’s glassy blue eyes lit up, a sweet smile playing across his lips as he waved at the kids.

Derek giggled and waved back.

Their mother tugged at the door handle, but it was locked.

“Laura, sweetie, unlock the door,” she pleaded.

“No,” Laura said sharply. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Their mother let out a frustrated sigh, making her way to the other side of the car. She pulled open the passenger’s side door that Laura had forgotten to lock that door.

His sister screwed up her face, her grip on Derek’s hand tightening.

“This is Mr Hale,” their mother said, reaching past the seat and unlocking Derek’s door. “He’s going to give us a lift to his auto shop and then send someone to tow the car and get it fixed.”

“I don’t want to go,” Laura said sharply, her eyes fixed on the man.

“Laura,” her mother said softly. “Come on.”

Talia unbuckled Derek from his seat. The boy reached out for her with grabby hands as she picked him up and cradled him to her chest. He grabbed at fistfuls of her shirt, snuggling his face into her shoulder as Talia reached out for Laura’s hand.

Laura hesitated. She slid out of her seat and walked across the floor, taking her mother’s hand and climbing out of the car.

Derek watched as the stranger—Robert—unstrapped Derek’s booster seat and carried it over to his red truck. He let his mother strap him back in, the cool air of the AC soothing him as he rested his head against the padded side of his car seat and drifted off to sleep.

More memories flew by. He saw Derek, five-years-old, balancing on the front of a car, held up by a pair of strong arms as Robert pointed out the different parts. He saw Derek’s mother standing at the alter in a long white gown, smiling as she looked at Robert lovingly. He saw a young girl with straight brown hair and his mother’s dark eyes—Cora. He saw the dark silhouette of Boyd’s legs hanging over the edge of the bunk as Derek lay awake one night.

The next memory crashed over him in a blur of colour.

Stiles stood in the open air, watching the drifting flurries of snow fall. The piercing glare of floodlights broke through the dark night, lighting up the deep snow. Wind blew through him, making him shudder.

He knew where he was; he had seen that place before—Caledonia.

Derek stood in the shadows of the tree line, his eyes wide as he searched the crowd for a familiar face. He held Isaac close, turning the boy so that he was shielded by Derek’s body. He cupped the back of the boy’s head, cradling him against his shoulder and feeling him tremble as the icy winds tore through them.

Kids in brightly coloured uniforms ran past them.

Derek’s eyes darted back and forth, blinking as he tried to look through the haze of falling snow. His chest was tight with panic, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He spotted Boyd.

The boy was by the edge of the fence, helping kids back to their feet and ushering them towards the woods. Bullets flew past him, narrowly missing him every time.

Derek turned to look for Miguel but froze. His eyes fell on one of the PSFs.

The man in the black uniform raised his gun, taking aim at Boyd.

“Boyd!” Derek’s voice rang out through the night.

Another boy turned, noticing the PSF.

Boyd did too. His eyes flew open wide, but he didn’t have time to react; he was lifted off his feet and hurled backwards. He slid through the icy slush, his back colliding with a tree trunk by Derek.

Derek hauled him to his feet, pulling him towards the shadows.

“Miguel!” Boyd called out.

“Turn around!’ the PSFs bellowed. “Hands up!”

Miguel followed orders, turning to look at them. His pale hazel eyes met Derek’s.

‘It’s okay,” the boy mouthed. ‘Go.’

The gunshot silenced everything.

Miguel’s body jerked, blood spraying across the snow as he fell forward.

Stiles felt the air knocked out of his lungs.

The next memory hit him before he had the chance to realise it.

He saw himself, sitting in the passenger’s seat. He saw how Derek saw him; the tousled mess of his chestnut brown hair, his dark eyes coloured gold as they caught the light, the moles that charted constellations across his pale skin, the sweet smile lifted the corners of his lips. He heard his own voice, matching Derek’s as they sang along to the radio.

 _No_. _I don’t want to see—_

Stiles balled his fist and slammed it into Derek’s jaw.

The older boy staggered back, releasing his grip on Stiles and collapsing to the ground.

Stiles stumbled but caught himself, falling against the brick wall. His legs crumbled beneath him as he sank to the ground.

He looked over at Derek, fear and dread seeping in like streams of ink.

He’d done it again; he’d done what he did to his parents, what he did to Scott.

His mind screamed at him to run, but his body was frozen still. His stomach twisted nauseatingly, his vision coming in and out of focus as his throbbing headache began to subside. His lungs burnt for the air that danced across his trembling, breathless lips. His heart hammered against his ribs, the pounding in his ears deafening.

“Stiles?”

He looked up, his eyes wide with shock as he looked up at the pale aventurine eyes that looked back at him with concern.

Derek let out a strangled laugh as he pushed himself onto his hand and knees before staggering to his feet. “What the hell just happened?”

“I tripped,” Stiles said, his voice strained as he swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“And here I was, trying to be valiant and catch you. Lesson learnt,” he chuckled. “Next time, darlin’, I’ll let you fall.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, unable to look Derek in the eye. “I’m so sorry…”

Derek stopped laughing. “Green, you know I’m kidding, right?” he said softly. His eyes widened as he realised Stiles was still on the ground. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Stiles shook his head, his arms trembling as he used the brick wall to push himself back to his feet. He kept his voice steady as he said, “We should head back. They’ll be getting worried about us.”

Derek nodded, following after Stiles as he stepped around the corner of the building and began to walk back across the car park to the Jeep.

He’d been lucky this time. Derek still remembered him, and so did Isaac.

But he couldn’t risk it again.

He needed Slip Kid’s help; but he couldn’t risk hurting them.

He was silent as they drove into Salem, staring out the window while Boyd and Derek resumed their argument about which way they should go.

“Either way, we’re going to need supplies,” Derek said as he parked the Jeep under a bridge near the edge of town. The concrete walls were covered in colourful scrawls of graffiti and tags and cast cool shadows across them.

Stiles stepped out of the Jeep, looking down the streets that seemed so nostalgic.

“I just want to check something out quickly,” he said. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, go on without me. I’ll meet you at East River.”

Derek’s brow furrowed slightly, but he reluctantly nodded. “Alright.”

Stiles buried his hands in his pockets as he stepped out from under the shadows of the bridge and began to walk down the familiar streets. It didn’t take him long to get where he was going.

The air was sweet with the smell of pine. The rain had gathered in puddles across the streets, reflecting the light like pools of silver. The sun had come out and everything was lit in a golden glow.

Stiles slowed as he stopped before the house.

It looked exactly the same as it had six years ago: the ranch-style house covered in pale blue weatherboards, white trimmings, and dark wood shutters. The small patio hanging over the front door, the concrete step surrounded by a flowerbed of lavender, sage, and hyacinths that he had helped his mum plant. He was even willing to wager that the spare key his dad hid was still sitting atop the wooden beam of the a-frame above the front door.

He drew in a deep breath and took a few steps forward. His body numb as his legs moved beneath him.

He froze.

What was he going to do, unlock the door and walk into the house?

His parents didn’t remember him, and he didn’t know how to convince them he was the kid they don’t remember ever having or how fix what he’d done.

The look on his mother’s face the day he was taken away was scorched into his memories; the look of terror as she stared at him without the slightest hint of recognition.

He wanted nothing more than to run inside and throw himself into her arms like he used to when he was a kid, but he couldn’t. He wanted to tell her he was sorry and that he missed her. He wanted to tell her everything, about what he was and what he had done. He wanted to hear his parents say it’d be okay, he wanted them to tell him he loved them, one last time.

It felt as if his chest had caved in, his lips trembling as his stomach twisted as a sob rose into his throat. He swallowed hard, the tears welling in his eyes and blurring his vision.

He tried to take another step forward, but it was as if there were a sheet of glass between him and his home; he could see it, but he couldn’t go there.

He remembered the horrified look on her face the day the PSFs took him away.

He couldn’t do that to her again.

She didn’t remember him.

She didn’t have a son.

He turned away, his lungs burning as he fought the sobs that heaved his chest.

He had to get away.

He ran.

He sprinted across the road and down the nearby street.

The thick leather soles of his boots thumped the ground, searing pain flooding his legs as he forced himself to run faster, father.

His lungs burnt for air, his vision streaked with blurs of light and colour as he ran.

He ran as far as he could until he as sure his legs were going to give out. He stumbled to a halt, doubling over. He shoulders heaved in heavy breaths, tears glistening as they rolled down his cheeks. Bile rose into his throat, burning at his oesophagus. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, trying to steady the racing heartbeat that pounded in his ears.

He straightened up, blinking the tears from his eyes. He turned around in circles, trying to work out where he was.

He stood in the middle of a field, the one on the edge of town. Tall pine trees grew around the field and the grass was overgrown, the tall golden stalks dancing about in the light breeze. The obnoxiously bright playground he used to play on still stood at the far end of the field, abandoned and covered in black spray paint.

“Stiles!”

He wheeled around, eyes wide as a figure ran over to his side. Stiles wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jacket, the figure coming into focus; dark hair, pale eyes, the same worn leather jacket.

Derek.

He felt a strange sense of relief flow through him as the older boy slowed and took a step closer.

“You okay?” he asked.

Stiles sniffed back his tears and nodded. “I’m fine.”

“You dropped this,” Derek said, holding something out for Stiles.

Stiles held his hand out, letting Derek drop the small keychain into the palm of his hand.

“Where did you get it?” Derek asked.

“Isaac,” Stiles whispered.

He faintly ran his fingers over the small wolf.

“I forgot what it was like to have a family,” he said, his voice breaking as he fought back the tears that welled in his eyes. “And I didn’t realise how much I missed it until I realised that I don’t have a family anymore. I’m all alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Derek said softly. “We have each other…”

Stiles looked up at him, meeting Derek’s eyes.

He felt his breath hitch in his throat, his heartbeat racing. He wanted nothing more than to touch his face, to run his fingers through his soft hair, to feel the warmth of Derek’s lips against his own.

Derek took a step closer, gently reaching out and brushing the tips of his fingers down Stiles’ sleeve. He leant in close.

Stiles tilted his chin, chasing his Derek’s lips. He felt Derek’s breath play across his lips, his warmth so comforting, so near.

Stiles pulled back, bowing his head as he tried to compose himself.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ Stiles scolded himself. _I can’t be reckless. I can’t get close, or else I’ll hurt him_.

“Sorry,” Derek whispered, taking a step back. He turned and began to walk across the field. “One day, you’re going to tell me all about yourself, Stiles Stilinski,” he said, a smile playing across his lips. “And I can’t wait to hear it. Until then, Isaac saved some Twinkies just for you.”

Stiles let out a breathless laugh, balling his fist around the keychain. He followed Derek back across the field and down the road towards where they had left the Jeep.

They climbed down the embankment, dropping to the pavement and stepping into the shadows of the tunnel.

Something was wrong.

Stiles’ heart stopped.

Boyd and Isaac were nowhere to be seen.

He took a step forward, a flash of movement out the corner of his eye catching his attention.

He heard Derek call his name and turned just as a man stepped forward and slammed the butt of his rifle against Stiles’ face.

The boy hit the ground, blood streaming across his face. His vision blurred, colours bleeding into a swirling mess and streaks of light scorching his eyes. He let out a pained grunt as the asphalt dug into his face.

Stiles pushed himself onto his elbows, his head throbbing as he looked up at the man.

He saw Derek stretch out a hand, his eyes lighting up blue as he lifted the man off the ground and hurled him across the road.

The man hit the side of the tunnel with a painful _thwack_ before collapsing to the ground, unconscious.

Stiles pushed himself onto his hands and knees, blinking the blood from his eyes as he looked down the side of the Jeep.

Boyd and Isaac were sitting on the ground, their hands tied behind their backs and their feet bound by a length of bright yellow rope. Standing over them was a woman with long blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. She held something in her hand, a small black box.

“Stiles,” Derek called, running over to the boy’s side. He only made it a few steps before the White Noise pierced their heads.

Stiles cried out, his back arching off the ground.

Derek crumbled to the ground, pale and shaking.

“Hello, Derek,” the woman said, her voice smooth and cynical as she shut off the White Noise and stepped over to their side.

She shoved her boot into Derek’s side, rolling him onto his stomach and fastening a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.

“Kate,” he seethed. “You took your time. Your pay’s going to be docked for slacking on the job.”

“You, alone, fetch two hundred and fifty thousand,” Kate told him. “And another thirty thousand for any other kids from Ohio. It seems that you’ve gotten yourself into a fair bit of trouble since we last met.”

“I try my best,” Derek said, a mischievous grin playing across his face. A second later, his smile fell from his face, his expression serious. “If you let them go, you can have me. I won’t give you any trouble.”

“No,” Boyd shouted.

“Or, I could take you all in. Starting with your little friend here.”

Stiles’ heart hammered against his ribs.

 _I can’t go back_.

Derek squirmed, fighting against his handcuffs and the searing pain that flooded his muscles. He pulled his knees up to his chest, trying to loop his arms around his legs so his hands were in front of him again.

Stiles could hear Scott’s voice as clear as day: ‘ _Why can’t you ever stand up for yourself? Just once, Stiles—_ just once _, will you stand up for yourself?’_

 _They’ll know_ , Stiles thought. _They’ll know what I am_.

Stiles tried to move, tried to fight back, but his ears were screaming from the White Noise and his body refused to move. His head fell to the side, his eyes focusing on the small figure of a wolf. The keychain.

He glanced up, looking at the little boy who sat next to Boyd, tears streaking his face.

‘ _Wolves protect_.’

 _I won’t let her take him,_ he thought, determination flooding through him. His jaw tensed, anger burning in his eyes as the static that buzzed through his mind flowed through his body.

A pair of boots came into focus as Kate stepped over to his side. She reached down, holding a gun to Stiles’ jaw as she grabbed a fistful of Stiles’ jacket and hoisted him to his feet.

Stiles grabbed her wrist, his mind filled with the screaming static as his eyes lit up.

Kate’s eyes flew open wide, the pale blue depths growing hazy as Stiles dove into her mind. Her legs weakened beneath her she dropped to her knees before him.

“Drop it,” Stiles said, forcing the image of her releasing her grip on her gun into her mind.

She held her arm out to the side and did as he had imagined, unfurling her grasp and letting the weapon fall to the ground.

“Keys too.”

She pulled them from her pocket and dropped them.

“Say you’re sorry to Isaac.”

Her voice was quiet and void of an emotion, but she did as she was told. “I’m sorry, Isaac.”

Salty beads of sweat stung his open wound. His head was pounding, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. Blood dripped down the side of his face, soaking into the collar of his shirt.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said. “You’re going to walk into that forest and keep walking. After an hour, you’re going to sit down and not move. You will not eat, you will not sleep, you will not drink, no matter how much you want to. You will not move.”

Stiles felt the darkness creeping in, his eyes growing heavy as he dove further into her mind. He found the memories of Derek; of the day Kate had found him in the Walmart, of her handing him over to PSFs. He found the memories of the boys in Walmart telling her where Derek was in exchange for letting them go. He found the memories of the faded blue Jeep and he erased them, watching them deteriorate and crumble to dust.

“You won’t remember any of this,” Stiles whispered, feeling his voice falter.

“I won’t remember any of this,” Kate parroted back.

Stiles unfurled his fingers, letting his hand fall to his side.

Kate released her grip on the front of Stiles’ jacket before turning and walking towards the undergrowth.

Stiles fell to his knees, his stomach heaving as his head pounded.

Blood and sweat mingled on his skin. His breathing was shallow, his eyes heavy as the screaming pain in his head intensified.

 _Don’t faint_ , he told himself, fighting back the darkness that edged into his vision. _Don’t faint_.

He heard Derek say something.

“Don’t—” Stiles rasped.

His eyes fell shut, his body falling to the asphalt. The darkness consumed, him dragging him down into the abyss.


	12. Chapter 12

He was nine-years-old and sitting on the swing set in the park. The light of day was fading and the pale blue sky had faded to a dreary grey. He sat alone, listening to the distant whispers of noise: cars driving down the street, televisions playing in houses, people chatting in their front yard.

Everyone knew what was happening: kids were dying and the ones who had changed were taken away.

There was a quiet rumble of a car engine as it pulled up by the park and the dull thud of a car door shutting. He heard the man walk across the grass and over to the swings, but he didn’t look up.

The man drew closer, standing a few feet away from him with his hands folded across his chest. He let out a heavy sigh and sat down on the swing beside Stiles.

“What’s on your mind, kiddo?” his father asked.

“They’re all dead,” Stiles said quietly. “What happened when they’re all gone, and I’m left alone?”

“You still got me,” his father said with a kind, reassuring smile.

Stiles looked up at his dad. “Is it true? Are there people taking kids away?”

His father nodded. “Some kids have… changed. And there are soldiers who are taking the to somewhere they think they’ll be safe.”

“Will they take me away too?” Stiles asked.

“No,” his father said, determined. “I won’t let them. I would destroy every shred of evidence to protect you if I had to. I would burn the whole sheriff’s station to the ground.” He grabbed the chain of Stiles’ swing and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around his son. “I won’t let anyone take you away from me.”

 

 

Stiles slowly blinked his eyes open, his head pounding as the light of day met his eyes. He drew in a deep breath, smelling the familiar fake lemon detergent and old leather. Roscoe.

The Jeep wasn’t running. The engine was silent and the keys were left in the ignition. The only sound was the radio, the volume quiet.

Stiles let out a quiet groan as he tried to push himself upright.

Searching pain tore through him. His body collapsed beneath him, his head throbbing as his stomach twisted. He swallowed hard against the bile that burnt at his throat, his mouth as dry as sandpaper.

His hands shook as he slowly lifted his hand to his temple, feeling the jagged edge of his skin that had been torn open by the butt of the skip tracer’s rifle. His fingers brushed against the loops of cotton that had stitched the wound shut.

 _Boyd_.

He tried to sit up again, slowly pushing himself upright. He leant back against the Jeep’s door, looking at the empty seats.

He looked out the window at the thick growths of trees. The fading light of day broke through the undergrowth, dancing across the floor as it began to fade to night.

He heard footsteps among the undergrowth, dry husks of fallen leaves crunching underfoot.

“—it’s too dangerous,” he heard a familiar voice say. Boyd. “We need to consider getting rid of him.”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Derek said, agitated.

Stiles used the seat in front of him to pull himself upright more. He looked out the front window at where Boyd and Derek stood in front of a small fire they had built with kindling and a ring of mismatched stones.

“When _are_ we going to talk about this?” Boyd said. “Never? We’re just going to pretend like it never happened?”

“Isaac will be back soon—”

“Good, this is his decision too—it’s all of our decision, not just yours.”

Derek was livid. “What the hell are we supposed to do, just _dump_ him here?”

“Yes!” Boyd cried out. “It’s too dangerous!”

“I won’t do it.” Derek said through gritted teeth.

Stiles pushed open his door, but he was too slow.

Boyd threw up his hand, knocking Derek back without touching him.

Derek hit the ground with a painful grunt. His lips were pursed tight, his eyes burning with rage as his shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths. His eyes lit up blue as he swiped his hand in front of himself, pulling Boyd’s legs from beneath him.

Boyd hit the ground but quickly recovered, rising to his feet and glaring at Derek.

“Why are you doing this?” he shouted. “Are you trying to get us caught?”

“I know, I know,” Derek said, his voice weakening as he let his head fall back against the ground and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I should have been more careful.”

“Why didn’t you just _tell_ me?” Boyd asked, his voice catching in his throat. “Did you know this whole time? Why lie about it? Do you even want to go home?”

“ _Boyd_.”

Stiles’ voice was scratchy and broken, but it caught his attention.

Derek pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking at Stiles with a startled expression.

“I’ll go,” Stiles said, reaching back into the Jeep and grabbing his backpack. “Just, please, stop fighting. I’m sorry I lied to you.” His voice was quiet, his lips quivering as he fought the tears that welled in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He turned, his legs aching as he forced them to move.

“Stiles,” Derek called after him, scrambling to his feet.

“Stiles!” Boyd called out, louder. “Oh, for the love of… we were talking about Roscoe, not your Orange ass.”

Stiles froze.

He slowly turned back to look at them. “But… I thought… I understand why you would want to leave me…”

Derek looked horrified. “We left the radio on in case you woke up,” he said, gesturing towards the Jeep, “so you’d know we _didn’t_ leave you.”

Stiles felt his breath fall past his lips, his shoulders shaking as tears began to fall from his eyes. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Come sit down,” Boyd said softly.

Stiles dropped his bag by the Jeep as he walked over to the fire, sitting down between Boyd and Derek and letting the crackling fire warm him.

Boyd dug into a bag that sat nearby, pulling out a bottle of water and handing it to Stiles.

Stiles thanked him, unscrewing the lid and gulping down the water.

“You thought we’d get rid of you because you weren’t really a Green?” Derek asked. “I mean, we were a little hurt that you didn’t trust us with the truth, but it was your secret.”

“I trust you. Really, I do,” Stiles said. “I just didn’t want you to think that I forced my way in or manipulated you. I didn’t want you to be afraid of me.”

“First of all, why would we think that you pulled a Jedi mind trick on us? We voted—we _asked_ you to stay,” Derek pointed out. “If you had forced us to take you in, we would have known instantly, because Boyd would have voted yes. And secondly, what’s so wrong with being an Orange?”

“You have no idea—” _You have no idea what I’m capable of_.

“You’re right,” Boyd cut in. “We have no idea, but it’s not like we’re going to win any awards for normalcy any time soon. So you can get into people’s head; Derek and I can throw people around like they’re toys, and Isaac once blew up an AC unit just by walking past it.”

“It’s not the same,” Stiles said quietly. “I can’t always control it. And when I lose control, someone gets hurt. I see things that I don’t want to see. I turn people into things they aren’t. When I’m in someone’s head, it’s like quicksand; the more I try to pull away, the more damage I do.”

Derek leant forward, his face a breath away from Stiles’. He levelled his pale aventurine eyes with Stiles’ gaze. He reached out, gently lacing his fingers through Stiles’ tousled hair and cupping the back of his neck. His voice was gentle as he said, “We want you. We wanted you yesterday, we want you today, and we’ll want you tomorrow. There’s nothing you could do that will ever change that. If you’re scared and you don’t understand your abilities, then we’ll help you understand—but don’t think, not for one second, that we would ever just leave you.”

Stiles let a breath fall from his lips.

Derek waited for a moment before asking, “Is this why you acted that way when I said the Slip Kid might be an Orange? Is that really why you want to find him, or do you want to go somewhere else? Because either way, darlin’, we’ll get you there.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted. He took a second, letting he warmth of the crackling fire chase away the chill in his blood.

He looked up, his eyes taking in the forest around him.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Somewhere between North Carolina and the Great Dismal Swamp, I hope,” Derek answered, his hand resting on Stiles’ back as he rubbed soothing circles between the younger boy’s shoulder blades. “Southeast Virginia. Now that you’re awake, I need to check on Isaac. You two stay here, okay?”

Stiles and Boyd nodded, watching as Derek rose to his feet, dusted himself off and walked away.

Boyd turned to face Stiles.

“Stiles,” he said, his voice serious. “Can you tell me who the president is?”

“Can you tell me why you’re asking that question?” Stiles returned.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Angry man. Rifle.” He pointed at gash across his temple that had been stitched up. “Ouch.”

Boyd shot him a dirty glare. “I’m trying to be serious.”

“Raeken,” Stiles replied. “And my head feels like it’s about to cave in.” 

“Well, serves you right for scaring the hell out of all of us,” Boyd said. “My dad used to say that head wounds look worse than they actually are, but you looked like you were dead.”

“Felt like it too,” Stiles admitted. He turned to look at Boyd, his quiet voice full of gratitude as he said, “Thanks for stitching me up.”

Body nodded.

“I probably look like Frankenstein, but I guess that’s appropriate, all things considered.”

“Frankenstein was the man who created the monster, not the monster,” Boyd corrected.

A smirk played across Stiles’ lips. “You couldn’t let that one go, could you?”

“No.”

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at the faded blue Jeep that was parked among the shadows. He let out a dejected sigh and turned back to the fire, noticing the copy of _Watership Down_ that Stiles had found for him in Walmart.

 _Rabbits need dignity and, above all, the will to accept their fate_.

The line stuck to his mind like glue.

In the book, the rabbits had come across this warren—this community—that accepted food hand outs from humans in exchange for accepting that some of them would be killed by the same humans in return. Those rabbits stopped fighting the system, because it was easier to take the loss of freedom, that to be out there in the world struggling to find food and shelter. They had decided that the loss of some was worth the temporary comfort of many.

“Will it always be this way?” Stiles asked, pulling his knees to his chest. “Even if we find East River and we get help—there’s always going to be another skip tracer around the corner, isn’t there? Will it even be worth it?”

 _The will to accept their fate_. In their case, that fate was to never see their families again, to always be hunted. Something had to give—they couldn’t always liver that way.

Boyd let out a heavy sigh, setting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Maybe nothing will ever change for us,” he said. “But don’t you want to be around just in case it does?”

 

 

Isaac came bounding out of the trees, sprinting towards Stiles.

Stiles held out his arms, letting the boy tackle him to the ground.

Boyd and Derek scolded him for being to rough, but Stiles brushed them off, holding Isaac close as he sat upright again. He cupped the back of the boy’s head as Isaac buried his face in Stiles’ shoulder, his little hands grabbing at Stiles’ jacket.

“I’m okay,” Stiles assured him.

Derek and Boyd began to rummage through Roscoe to pool together what food they had left. They brought it over to the campfire.

Derek gently pried Isaac away from Stiles, sitting him down between them as he handed out the food.

Stiles felt a little better as he ate, and he began to explain things to them.

“So that’s how you figured out the clue,” Derek said. “You saw a memory of it?”

“No, I figured it out myself,” Stiles said, slightly defensive, “but the memory did clue me in. It’s not as impressive now, is it?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Derek said. “I’m just trying to imagine what the inside of that kid’s head would look like and the only thing coming to mind is a swamp filled with alligators. It must have been terrible.”

“Not as terrible as slipping to someone’s head that I like,” Stiles admitted.

“Did you?” Boyd asked, scooping peach slices out of a can Isaac had found in the nearby abandoned camp site.

“Did I what?” Stiles asked.

“Did you ever see inside our heads?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Derek said, prying open a can of pears and handing it to Isaac.

“Sorry, I’ve just never met an Orange before,” Boyd admitted. “There weren’t any at Caledonia.”

“Because the government erased them all,” Stiles said, staring down at his hands in his lap. “That’s what happened at Thurmond.”

“What do you mean?” Derek asked, alarmed.

“For the first two or three years I was there, we had every colour, even Red and Orange,” Stiles said. “Then, one day, they were gone. No one knows where they went or why. Some people thought it was because of all the trouble they caused. There were rumours that they were being moved to another camp where they could do more testing on them. We just woke up one morning and all the Reds, Yellows, and Oranges were gone.”

“What about you?” Boyd asked. “How did you avoid being bussed off?”

“I pretended to be a Green from the start,” he said. “I was ten and I didn’t know what I was or how to control my abilities. I saw how scared the PSFs were of Oranges, I was scared. I somehow convinced the doctor that I was a Green during the classifying test. These kids… they were messed up. And I don’t know if they were like that before they got their abilities, or if they hated themselves for having them, but they used to do terrible things.”

“Like what?” Boyd asked.

His stomach twisted as remembered the blood spray across the side of the bus they were brought into camp when the Orange convinced the PSF to shoot herself. Or the stain of blood under his fingernails from the time they were ordered to scrub the Mess Hall after an Orange convinced a PSF to open fire on every other soldier they saw.

Boyd opened his mouth to say something, but Derek held up his hand, silencing him.

Stiles swallowed hard, his voice scratching at his throat when he spoke. “I just knew I needed to protect myself.” He hung his head, not able to look at any of them. “Now you see what a mistake it was to let me stay.”

Isaac shook his head, his eyes wide and his expression distraught as he dropped his can of pears and wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist. Boyd dropped his gaze, his eyes dark with thought.

Derek, however, looked him straight in the eye.

“Try to imagine where we’d be without you, darlin’,” he said quietly, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth, “and then maybe you’ll see just how lucky we got.”

 

 

That night, they slept in the Jeep. Boyd was sprawled in the back and Isaac was curled up on the backseat, a jacket folded up under his head as a pillow and a blanket draped over him. Derek had pushed back the driver’s seat and Stiles had done the same with the passenger’s seat.

Stiles tossed and turned, unable to settle into sleep.

Finally, around five in the morning, he was just about to give up on sleep when he felt someone brush the back of their fingers across his neck.

He rolled over onto his side, looking across at Derek who laid in his seat, half awake.

“You were muttering to yourself,” he whispered. “You okay?”

Stiles propped himself up on an elbow, blinking the sleep from his heavy eyes.

The rain had condensed on the windows, lit by the silvery light of the rising sun and covering the cracked windshield in a sheet of lace.

In the pale light, he could see everything: every bruise and cut on Derek’s face, some beginning to heal and others that had long since scarred. His dark hair seemed to stick out at all angles, tousled by sleep and laying against his forehead. His pale aventurine eyes seemed more blue in the dim light.

“What?” he whispered. “What are you smiling about?”

Stiles reached over, running his fingers through Derek’s hair and smoothing it back from his face. A second later, he realised what he was doing, but Derek grabbed his hand before he could pull it back, lacing their fingers together and tucking it under his chin.

“Nope,” he said softly when Stiles tried to tug it away. “Mine now.”

It was dangerous, he knew that, but there was something so tender and comforting about his touch that Stiles couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

“I’m going to need it back eventually,” Stiles said with a soft chuckle.

“Too bad,” Derek muttered, gently brushing his stubble across the soft skin of the back of his hand.

“… crackers…” a quiet voice mumbled from the back of the Jeep, “ _yessss_ …”

They both turned, watching as Boyd rolled over, fast asleep.

Stiles pressed his hand to his mouth, fighting a burst of laughter while Derek rolled his eyes.

“He dreams about food,” he said. “A lot.”

“At least they’re good dreams.”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “I guess he’s lucky.”

He shifted in his seat, folding his arm under his head as he looked down at their interlocked fingers, studying the way they sat together perfectly.

“If you wanted to, could you see what he what he’s dreaming about?” Derek asked.

Stiles nodded. “But that’s private.”

“Have you done it before?”

“Not intentionally.”

“To me?”

“To the boys in my cabin,” Stiles said. “To Isaac that night in the motel. I’ve been in your head—once, but not in your dreams.”

“Two days ago,” Derek said, realisation flooding his face. “The rest stop.”

Stiles tried to pull away, but Derek didn’t let him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “I’m not mad.”

He brought their hands up to his face and pressed a tender kiss to the back of Stiles’ hand.

“Does it make it worse? To be touching someone, I mean,” Derek asked. “Is it harder to control?”

“Sometimes,” Stiles answered. “When I’m tired or upset, I can fall into people’s thoughts without thinking about it, but it can be easier to avoid it if I’m not touching the person. If I do touch them when I’m like that, there’s no chance; it’s an instant connection.”

“I thought so,” Derek said. He let their linked hands rest against his chest, closing his eyes for a second. “When we first met, you’d go out of your way to avoid touching us. I kept wondering if it was something you had been conditioned to do at camp, because every time one of us tried to touch you or talk to you, you’d jump like we had shocked you.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Stiles whispered.

His eyes flew open as he looked at their hands. “Is this okay?”

“Are _you_ okay?” Stiles countered. He knew that look on his face—it was nearly identical to the one he’d worn at the rest stop, when he talked about their camp. “What are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about how strange it is that we haven’t even known each other for two weeks and it feels like I’ve known you for much longer than that,” he said. “And I’m thinking it’s frustrating to feel like I now certain parts of you so well, but other parts of you… I don’t even know what your life was like before you went into camp.”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat.

What could he tell him? What could he say about what he had done to his parents and to Scott?

“This,” he said, motioning at the space between the two of them, “is a place where you don’t have to lie. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“You remember?”

“Of course, I do,” he said. “Because I keep hoping that it goes both ways. That if I ask you why you don’t want to go home, you’ll tell me the truth. Or if I ask you what Thurmond was really like, you’ll stop lying. But then I realised it’s not fair, because it’s not like I want to talk about my family. It’s like… It’s hard to explain. It’s like, those memories are mine, you know? They’re the things that the camp didn’t take away from me when I went in, and they’re the things I don’t have to share if I don’t want to.” He shook his head. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Stiles said.

“I want to talk to you about these things. I want to tell you everything,” Derek said quietly. “I just don’t know what to say about Caledonia that won’t make you hate me. I was stupid, and reckless, and I know that Boyd and Isaac blame me for what happened. And I know that Laura’s probably told Mum about it by now, and she’s probably told Robert by now, and the thought of that just makes me sick.”

“You did what you thought was right,” Stiles said. “I’m sure they understand that.”

Derek shook his head. He turned to look at Stiles, reaching out with his other hand and gently brushing Stiles’ hair back. His fingers trailed across the boy’s bruised temple with the faintest touch, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind his ear.

“What do we do?” Stiles whispered.

Derek let out a heavy sigh. “We should wake the others. We need to keep moving.”

“What’s the rush?”

A faint smile played across his lips. “I think we can let them sleep a few more hours.”


	13. Chapter 13

Two hours rolled by. They must have fallen asleep at some point because Stiles blinked his eyes open to see the condensation shrinking on the windows, revealing a world of colour lit by the rays of sunlight that broke through the foliage.

As he stirred, so did Derek, lifting Stiles’ hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of his hand before letting go.

The two of them stretched, working out the kinks from sleeping in the awkward positions.

Derek climbed into the back seat gently shaking Isaac awake.

The boy woke with a quiet whimper, rubbing at his tired eyes.

Derek reached into the back of the Jeep and slapped Boyd’s leg, jolting the teen awake.

“Wake up,” he said. “Time to carpe the hell out of this diem.”

Boyd let out a moan as he rolled over, shoving open the back doors and rising to his feet to stretch.

Stiles stepped out of the car, picking his black backpack out from under the front seat and making his way around to the back of the car. He began to pack it with blankets, clothes, and bottles of water. He passed around what was left of their food before packing the last of it.

Derek pulled the boys’ letters out of the glove box and slid them into his jacket pocket.

“We should get going,” Derek said, jumping out of the Jeep and onto his feet. He turned to look at Stiles. “Unless you want to try and run away again?”

Derek’s eyes lit up blue for a second, ready to hold Stiles back if he tried to run.

Stiles smiles softly and shook his head. “No more running,” he said.

Derek’s eyes returned to their natural hue as he pulled out a scarf and handed it to Stiles.

Stiles thanked him but passed it to Isaac, coiling it around the small boy’s neck.

Isaac beamed up at him, his pale cheeks pink as the cold wind blew through him.

Derek’s eyes drifted to the disturbingly large bloodstain that covered the collar and the front of Stiles’ shirt. “Do you want to wear my shirt?”

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat. It took him a second to regain himself. He shook his head and zipped up his jacket, trying to hide the blood.

His forehead was still tender and he had used the mirror on the back of the sun visor to see what he looked like. His pale skin was marred with a black bruise and the stitches weren’t in the least bit pretty, but his head had stopped throbbing and he was feeling better.

“Was it really that bad?” he asked.

“ _Evil Dead II_ bad,” Derek said. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, Green.”

“You can’t call him Green anymore,” Boyd pointed out, stuffing clothes and a few books into his bag.

“Yeah,” Stiles said quietly. “No more Green.”

Derek pouted. He turned to Isaac, watching as the little boy clambered out of the Jeep and set his bright pink backpack down on the ground. “All done?”

The boy gave him a thumbs up and stepped over to his side.

Derek set his hand on Isaac’s shoulder, his pale eyes darkening as he looked at Roscoe’s mangled shell. He felt Isaac’s shoulders tremble and looked down to see the boy crying without making a sound, glistening tears streaming down his cheeks.

He pulled Isaac closer to his side, letting the boy bury his face in the hem of Derek’s sweatshirt and cry.

Boyd finished packing his bag, shutting the back doors of the Jeep before stepping over to Isaac’s side. He wrapped an arm around Isaac’s shoulders, looking back at the car with fondness.

“I feel like we should do something,” Derek said. “Like, send him off on a barge out to sea and set him on fire. Send him out in a blaze of glory.”

Boyd rolled his eyes. “It’s a Jeep, Derek, not a Viking.”

“I know, but still—"

Isaac squirmed out of their arms and ran towards the trees nearby.

“Hey,” Derek called after him. “It’s okay, we’ll—”

The boy kicked up flurries of golden leaves as he hurried back to them, cradling something against his chest. He slowed to a stop in front of them, holding up his hands to show them the four wildflowers he had found among the undergrowth.

He walked over to the front of the Jeep, stretching up onto his toes as he tried to reach over the hood of the Jeep and tuck them under the windscreen wiper, but his arms were too short.

Boyd stepped forward, lifting the boy onto the hood of the Jeep.

Isaac placed each of the flowers under the wipers carefully, spacing them out across the windscreen before sliding back across the hood and letting Boyd lift him down. He walked back over to Derek’s side, wrapping his arms around the teen’s waist.

“It’s perfect,” Derek whispered to the boy, hugging him back.

Stiles understood why they were upset; the Jeep had been a safe place for them—for him too. And now, after they had lost everything, they were losing that too.

He felt Derek’s knuckles brush the back of his hand ever so gently. He felt a warmth settle in his chest. He turned his hand and brushed his fingers against Derek’s.

Derek slid his hand into Stiles’, lacing their fingers together.

Stiles looked at him, at the pain and sorrow that filled his eyes.

They stayed there for a while before Derek finally reached forward and picked up Isaac’s bright pink backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

Isaac reached up in protest, tugging at one of the straps until Derek begrudgingly shrugged the bag off his shoulders and helped Isaac thread his arms through the straps to carry it.

No one said anything as they turned away from the Jeep and walked on.

They made their way towards East River by following the roads they would have driven in Roscoe, walking close enough to the highway that they would occasionally see a car drive by but far enough away from it that they stayed out of sight.

Derek and Boyd took the lead, Stiles and Isaac following behind them.

Isaac held Stiles’ hand, letting the older boy lead him through the undergrowth and lift him over fallen trees.

The day seemed to drag on, their legs aching as they forced themselves to walk. The only thing that seemed to pass the time was the sound of Derek’s voice trailing through the trees as he sang ‘500 Miles’ by the Proclaimers.

They’d stopped to catch their breath when the wail of a truck’s horn shattered the quiet. The thundering booms that followed were worse, the sound of metal buckling, snapping and grating against the ground.

Stiles pulled Isaac close, instinctively shielding the boy with his body as they covered their ears with their hands.

The sound dies away, but Stiles stayed where he was. He looked up at Derek, his expression a mix of fear and confusion.

Derek looked suspicious, trying to stay calm as he stepped over to Stiles’ side and gently pried his hands away from his ears.

“Come with me,” he said quietly. He gently patted Isaac’s head, his eyes darting to Boyd. “Watch the bags. We’ll be right back.”

Boyd nodded.

Stiles’ ears were still ringing as he and Derek crept towards the highway. They moved silently through the undergrowth, careful not to step on any twigs or lose their footing on the uneven ground.

They slowed as they neared the road and crouched behind two thick tree trunks.

He felt dread settle into his gut as he looked past the tree line at the large semitrailer that had jack-knifed and rolled over. It laid on its side in the middle of the rain-soaked road as if it had been flung like a toy, metal buckled and sparking across the asphalt.

The smell of burnt rubber and smoke burnt at Stiles’ nose, churning his stomach. He swallowed hard against the bile that rose into his throat, burning his oesophagus.

Derek stood up, taking a step forward.

Stiles grabbed his elbow, holding him back.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, his voice raised over the rain that pelted the metal.

“The driver—”

 _Needed help_ , Stiles realised, but something about the situation didn’t seem right: trucks don’t just flip over like that on their own.

Before he could say anything, a deafening wave of shouts erupted from the trees on the other side of the highway.

A group of figures dressed in black poured out of the trees opposite them. Every inch of them was covered in black: black ski masks, black jackets, back pants, black shoes.

Stiles’ grip on Derek’s arm tightened as he watched the two dozen figures in black move in unison. They flooded onto the road and divided into two groups—one went to the front of the truck and the other to where the boxed contents it had been shipping had spilled across the road.

One of them, a tall guy with broad shoulders, hoisted himself onto the front of the truck, tearing open the driver's door and hauling the man out of the cab. He shoved the man off the wreck, his body hitting the asphalt with a sickening _twack_.

Stiles gasped, his heart racing as he watched the man cower in fear, blood dripping down his face as he looked up at the dark figures that towered over him. He was crying out in a language Stiles didn't understand; but he didn't have to understand it to know the man was begging for his life.

The tall guy nodded towards the man, signalling for the others to hold down the driver. The tall guy knelt on the man's chest, leaving the driver breathless as the figure dressed in black pulled a knife from the small of his back. He grabbed the man's hand, pushing the blade against the pale of his hand.

Before he could stop himself, Stiles leapt to his feet and charged out of the undergrowth, tackling the tall guy off the driver.

They hit the ground with a painful grunt. Stiles pushed himself to his knees, ready to fight the guy in black.

A gunshot rang out through the air, the bullet flying past Stiles' ear.

He fell back against the asphalt, his breath caught in his lungs as his ears rang from the gunshot. He felt his blood turn to ice in his veins as he lay still, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths as the surrounding figures turned the barrels of their guns on him.

The tall guy regained his senses. He knelt over Stiles, grabbing the front of his shirt. He balled his hand into a fist and slammed his knuckles against Stiles' jaw.

His head jerked to the side, his vision flooded with blinding white light and pain tearing through his body as his stitched temple hit the road. The bitter metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, streams of crimson spilling from his split lip.

"Wait!" Derek shouted, bursting out of the tree line.

The tall guy was on his feet in seconds, aiming the gun at Derek. "On your knees," he ordered.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat.

They were kids.

They were Psi.

"Okay," Derek said, his voice level and calming. He held up his hands, slowly lowering himself to his knees. "Easy—we're not armed."

"Save it, asshole," one of them hissed, prodding at Derek's back with his gun. "Face on the ground."

Derek shot Stiles a concerned look. He laid down against the road, his hands flat against the wet asphalt.

"You too," the tall guy barked, slamming the toe of his boot into Stiles' ribs.

Stiles cried out in pain, but didn't fight back. He pushed himself onto his side before lying down against the rough road.

Derek reached out to him, laying his hand atop of Stiles'.

One of the kids in black pressed their knee into Stiles' spine, pinning him down as they began to pat down his pockets. They pulled the small wolf keychain from his jacket, scoffing at it and tossing it aside.

Another figure did the same to Derek. They dug their hand into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out the three folded scraps of paper.

"Wait," Derek said, fighting against the weight of the person holding him still. "Not those. _Please_."

"Aw, don't want your precious papers to get wet," the boy patting him down teased. "How about you try being more worried about yourself and your boyfriend, here."

The tall boy holding Stiles down stood up. He took a step forward, standing between the two of them.

Stiles' hand trembled as he slid it from under Derek's hand and slowly reached for the tall guy's ankle.

The figure in black must have noticed because he lifted his boot and stomped on Stiles' hand.

Stiles choked on his cry, tears pricking his eyes as searing pain tore through his body.

"Hey!" Derek shouted, fighting against the person holding him down.

The tall guy lifted his boot and Stiles snatched his hand back. He held his hand out and the other figure passed him the letters.

"Doctor Vernon Boyd," he read aloud. "2775 Arlington Court, Alexandria, Virginia. Jorge Juarez—"

"Stop it!" Derek shouted. "We didn't do anything—we didn't see anything—just let us go!"

"Vernon Boyd?" one of the other kids asked. His voice was so quiet that it was almost drowned out by the sound of rain pelting the buckled metal of the truck. "Jorge Juarez—like Miguel Juarez?"

"Yes," Derek said impatiently. Derek drew in a deep breath, craning his neck to look up at the tall kid. He pieced it together faster than Stiles did: they weren't just kids; they were a tribe. "Please, we're Psi," he said, his voice quiet. "We're Psi like you."

"Derek?” the quiet boy from before asked. “Derek Hale?"

Derek's eyes widened with recognition as he looked up at one of the boys who ran over to his side. "Corey?"

"Oh my God... stop, stop!" the kid said. Some of the kids lowered their guns, but Stiles and Derek were still pinned against the ground. "Josh, I know him. He's Derek Hale— _the_ Derek Hale. The guy who got us out of Caledonia. Brett—get off of him."

"He saw. You know the rules," the tall guy, Josh, growled.

"The rules apply to adults,” Corey argued, shouting over the rain. “They're kids."

Derek shoved the kid off of his back, scrambling to his feet and driving his shoulder into the figure atop of Stiles.

Stiles felt the air rush into the lungs, the icy chill grating against his lungs. He coughed, droplets of blood dripping from his split lips as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees. He fell back, sitting up as he heaved in ragged breaths.

"Stiles," Derek called, gently setting one hand on Stiles' arm to steady the boy and cupping his face with the other. "Are you okay? Stiles, look at me—you okay?"

Stiles lifted his hand, laying it over the hand that Derek rested on his arm. Blood dripped down his chin, his head aching as he slowly nodded.

Derek's shoulders sagged as he let out a sigh of relief.

Two of the kids gathered around them pulled off their ski masks—Josh, who was a tall kid with a lean face, a long nose, eyes as dark as charcoal, and a mess of dark hair that was only made worse by the ski mask; and Corey, who had a round face, brown hair that was cut short and stuck up, and kind umber eyes.

Corey snatched the letters off Josh, straightening them out against the leg of his pants before passing them back to Derek.

"Thanks," Derek muttered, sliding them back into his pocket.

"Der, man, I'm so sorry. I never thought—" He stumbled over his own words, looking at Derek in astonishment.

Derek rose to his feet, pulling Stiles up and steadying him with one hand as he clapped Corey on the back with the other.

"I didn't think you made it out," Corey said quietly.

The kid who had been holding Derek down - Brett - stepped over to their side and pulled off his mask. He was tall with broad shoulders and short ash-blonde hair. He had something balled in his hand, holding it out for Stiles to take.

Stiles held out his hand, letting Brett drop the wolf keychain into the palm of his hand. His keychain.

He gently wiped the mud off the plastic wolf and slid it back into his jacket pocket.

Brett's pale blue eyes rolled over Derek. "This is Derek Hale?" he asked. "From Caledonia?"

"From _North Carolina_ ," Derek corrected.

"The others—" Corey said, ignoring Brett. "Did anyone else make it out?"

Stiles saw the pain that passed across Derek's expression.

Derek opened his mouth to say something when the shrill beep of their watches went off.

"That's time," Josh shouted. "Grab the supplies and head back. Uniforms will be here any second."

Stiles watched as the kids began to hoist crates full of fresh fruit out of the truck: boxes and crates full of mandarins, lemons, and oranges, green bananas that were a few days shy of being ripe, glossy green and red apples, pale green heads of lettuce, and bunches of carrots. Once they had gathered their supplies, they began to head back into the shadows beyond the trees. A couple of the bigger kids tied up the driver, leaving him on the shoulder of the highway.

"So, you're what? Raiding anyone stupid enough to drive by?" Derek asked, looking at Corey in confusion.

"It's a supply hit," the boy explained. "We're just trying to bring in a little food to eat, and this is the only way it works for us. But we have to do it fast—in and out before anyone notices is and can follow us back."

"Back?"

"Yeah," Corey said. "You should come with us."

"Thanks, but we've already got a tribe of our own," Derek said.

"We're not a tribe," Corey replied. "Not really. We're with the Slip Kid."

"The Slip Kid?" Derek gasped. "So you're heading back to..."

"East River."

 

 

East River wasn't all that special. It was an old campsite that had once been called Chesapeake Trails.

Since Corey was the one who stood up for them, he was the one who had been left behind to watch over them as they went back to get Boyd and Isaac, collected some more boxes of fruit, and made their way along the muddy trail.

While Corey and the others had their backs turned, Derek reached into the box Stiles was carrying, picking an orange out from the top of the pile before slipping it into the pocket of Stiles' jacket. He leant over, pressing a kiss to Stiles' bruised cheek.

A soft smile lifted the corners of Stiles' lips, a rosy pink blush colouring his cheeks.

Isaac trailed beside them, using the front of his jacket to bundle up a few pieces of fruit as he carried them along the trail. He had Derek's Mets cap on and had to stop every now and then to push it up when it fell over his eyes.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at Boyd who trailed a few meters behind them. Stiles stopped and waited for him to catch up.

"Need some help?" Stiles asked. "My box isn't as heavy. We can swap if you want."

Boyd shook his head. "I'm fine, but I appreciate you asking."

Derek and Corey burst out laughing about something.

Stiles watched as his eyes lit up; so different to how he had been only a few hours ago.

"What was he like?" Stiles asked quietly. "When he was in camp?"

Boyd shrugged. "What can I say? Der is Der. Everyone loved him, even some of the PSFs. They picked him out of all the Blues to be a runner for the Control Centre of our camp."

"Yeah? And what were you like in camp?" Stiles asked, smiling at him.

"Ignored, for the most part," Boyd answered. "Unless I was with Der."

As if he had heard his name, Derek turned around.

"Come on, you two," he called out. "We're going to be left behind."

Corey was in the middle of explaining how he had hitchhiked from Ohio to Virginia after breaking out of Caledonia when Boyd and Stiles finally caught up to them.

Isaac adjusted his hold on his bundle of fruit and tugged on Stiles' sleeve, pointing through the trees to their left.

Stiles felt his breath catch in his throat as he looked through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks at the silky blue lake. The clouds overhead drew back and the golden light of day caught the water, making it shimmer like a dark blue sapphire. Towering trees lined the water's edge. Through them, Stiles could see the small T-shaped wooden dock at the other end, and, beyond that, a campsite with several wooden cabins.

"So, it's more of a place to hide, then," Derek said. "Can Slip Kid help us get in touch with our families?"

"I guess," Corey answered. "But he usually asks that you stay and help with the camp for a few weeks in return. Plus, why would you ever want to go home now? It's much safer here."

Boyd's brow furrowed at the boy's words, but he said nothing.

"How long has the Slip Kid had this set up?" Derek asked.

"Two years or so," Corey replied.

"And there are hundreds of kids here just roaming around unchecked?" Stiles asked. "How has he been able to stay here so long without the PSFs catching on?"

Corey had explained how the camp worked. All of the kids who had gathered there—some who had escaped from camps or capture, others that had been able to hide out—had responsibilities; jobs that contributed to the running of the camp.

"That's the beauty of Slip Kid's protection," Corey said. "The PSFs can't attack him because of who he is and what he could do to them. Even President Raeken's terrified of him."

They made their way to a clearing that had once been used for campers to set up tents. Now, they were surrounded by kids. A group of boys, no older than fifteen or sixteen, were kicking a ball back and forth across the grass. Three kids - all Isaac's age - let out shrieks of joy as they ran in front of the returning group, an excited stray dog bounding alongside them.

The kids were all dressed in decent clothes and shoes and clean, not covered in cuts, bruises, and mud like they were.

A few kids who were sitting together or laying in the shade of the trees set aside whatever they were doing and rushed over to help them. They carried the boxes of fruit towards one of the wooden cabins; a large building painted white with a small step up and a large wooden sign screwed into the siding that read 'CAMP SHOP'.

The rest of the cabins were smaller with dark, forest green doors and small patios out the front. Between the buildings they had also set up large canopies and tents.

"This is where we keep all the food," Corey said, shouldering open the door to the Camp Store. "And upstairs is the Office where Slip Kid run the whole show—I'll take you guys to meet him, so you can get permission to stay here for a while."

"We need permission?" Boyd asked. "What happens if he says no?"

"He's never said no before," Corey replied.

The boy turned to look at Stiles, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy.

"Now, you couldn't have been at Caledonia. I would remember a face like yours." He was trying to be charming, with his dark eyes and dimples, but his charm was lost on Stiles. Corey looked at Derek. "Where did he come from, and where can I find one?"

"Picked this one up at a gas station in West Virginia," Derek said, setting his hand on Stiles' back reassuringly. "Last one on the shelf, sorry."

He winked at Stiles, a mischievous smile played across his lips, making Stiles’ heart flutter.

Stiles bowed his head slightly, hiding the soft, bashful smile the lifted the corners of his lips. He ducked under the sheet that had been strung up over the open doorway to the balcony, holding it open for the others before letting it fall back into place.

He felt his heart sink, his gut twisting and his breath hitching in his throat as he stared at the smears of black. A bold black Ψ had been painted onto the fabric.

Isaac let out a quiet whimper, clinging to Stiles' thigh. Stiles shifted his hold on the box and wrapped his arm around Isaac's shoulders, holding him close against his side.

Derek looked baffled. He turned to look at Corey, his eyes wide and his lips moving around unspoken words.

"What?" Corey asked.

Derek gestured towards the Psi symbol. "Any particular reason you've decorated this fine establishment with our mortal enemies' symbol?"

Corey's expression dropped, his brow furrowing slightly. "That's our symbol, isn't it?" he asked quietly. "It's Psi. It should represent us, not them."

"Then why all the black?" Boyd asked. "The clothes, the arm bands..."

He was right; in one way or another, all the kids were dressed in black. Some – mostly the younger kids – wore normal clothes with a black band tied around their arms while others – like those who had hit the truck for supplies – were dressed from head to toe in black.

"Black is the absence of colour," Corey said. "We don't segregate by colour here. Green, Blue, Yellow, Red, and Orange; it doesn't matter here. We all respect one another and out abilities, and we all help one another understand them. I thought if anyone would be on board with that, it'd be you, Der."

"Oh, I'm on board with it," Derek confirmed. "I'm the captain of that ship. I was just confused, that's all. Black is the colour that is all colours and none at all... Got it."

They followed Corey into the kitchen, shocked when they found the room lit by the glowing light bulbs that were set into the ceiling. Electricity.

Stiles remembered one of the others mentioning on their way to the camp something about the Yellows rigging up a system to make it all work. They had refrigeration and running water too.

The small storage space at the front of the room was filled with piles of sheets and blankets, a few mattresses stacked against the wall, and a number of grey plastic tubs. Beyond that was a kitchen with glossy white tiles where a few kids were stirring pots with long wooden spoons, the rich smell of the food filling Stiles' lungs and making his mouth water.

He followed the others through to the store room out the back where there was shelves stacked with an assortment of canned foods, boxes of cereal, bags of pasta, rice, chips, and even marshmallows.

Derek let out a low whistle as he looked at the stocked food.

They left the boxes of fruit on the floor in the corner of the storeroom where a young girl who looked to be fifteen-years-old looked down at them excitedly. She had subtle and stunning Asian features, long dark brown hair and dark eyes, and wore a loose-fitting black sweater over a grey tank top.

"I knew it'd make you happy, Tracy," Corey said with a sweet smile.

"We haven't had fruit in ages," Tracy said excitedly. "I just hope this all keeps for a week."

Stiles set his box down and held his hand out to Isaac, letting the boy hold his hand.

"Come with me," Corey said, leading them out of the Camp Store and across the narrow step that ran along the front of the white building like a decking. They made their way around the side of the building to another door that had a withered wooden sign above the frame that read 'OFFICE'.

"He should be finished meeting with the security team by now," he said. "Josh handles hits, but Lydia coordinates watch duty around the perimeter of the camp. If you want, I can talk to her about getting you assigned there."

He looked down at Isaac. "But, unfortunately for you, buddy, everyone under thirteen has to go to lessons."

"Lessons?" Boyd asked.

"Yeah. Math, a little science, some reading—depends on what books we're able to scrounge," Corey said.

Isaac looked up at Stiles with bright blue eyes, an excited smile lighting up his face.

Stiles couldn't help but smile back, gently tousling the boy's sandy blonde curls.

Corey turned to Boyd. "I know you never liked using them, but there are lessons on how to use your abilities too."

"I'm fine with what Miguel taught me," Boyd said quietly.

"Miguel..." Corey's voice trailed off. "I miss him."

"Did..." Derek swallowed hard, a glint of pain flashing in his eyes as he hesitantly asked, "Did anyone else make it? From Caledonia?"

"Five of us," Corey explained. He was the only one from their cabin, but he explained that there were two Blue girls, a Yellow boy, and a Green who had somehow made it all the way to east Virginia on their own.

Corey pushed open the door that led to a small wooden staircase. They made their way up to the second storey of the building, which was more of an attic than another floor. The withered wooden stairs creaked beneath them as they made their way up to the landing. Before them was an old door that had once been painted white, but it was now faded and chipped.

Corey knocked, and they waited.

Stiles felt his heartbeat pick up, hammering against his ribs as his chest tightened. He swallowed hard against the growing lump in this throat. What if Slip Kid said no? What if he didn’t let them stay? What if Slip Kid didn’t want to help him?

After a second, a voice called out from inside the door. "Come in."

Corey opened the door and ushered them into the room.

They stood in the middle of the room. To their right was a large white curtain that was drawn shut, hiding what looked like a living area. The golden light of day bleeding in through the large windows that stretched across the far wall, back-lighting the silhouettes of a bed and a dresser.

The other half of the room was set up like an office. There were two bookshelves filled with binders and books of every shape and size, and old desk with chipped paint sat in front of the shelves slightly. On the other side of the desk was two chairs and by the desk, up against the far wall, was a small table with all sorts of electrical equipment on it, including an old TV that was set to one of the news channels. President Raeken's face lit up the screen, his mouth moving but the volume was muted.

A young man sat behind the desk, his eyes focused on the glowing screen of the laptop in front of him as his fingers tapped away at the keyboard.

Stiles' steps faltered.

He was older now, but there was no mistaking; he knew that face all too well.

His tan skin seemed to glow in the daylight, his face composed and his blue-grey eyes were like a pool of icy water, clear and focused. His light brown hair was longer, no longer tousled and spiked with gel, but long and brushed aside from his eyes. His shoulders were broader, his jaw more square. He wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his firm forearms.

Stiles stared in shock, watching as the older boy shut his laptop and rose from his seat, stepping around his desk and glancing up at the newcomers.

There was no mistaking who he was, but Stiles didn’t believe it until he heard Boyd utter his name.

“Theo Raeken.”

The young man looked up as they entered the room. His eyes widened as he saw Stiles.

Nothing could have ever prepared Stiles for what left his mouth.

"Mieczyslaw Stilinski."


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles staggered backwards, stumbling over his own feet. He was at the door before he knew it, instinctively ushering Isaac behind himself and holding him close as the boy clung to his jacket. He reached out behind himself with his other hand, feeling for the door handle.

Theo took a step forward, but Derek was faster; he stepped between them, shoving Theo back.

“Derek,” Corey gasped.

Theo held up his hand. “Sorry,” he said apologetically. “I'm sorry—I should have realised how that would sound. I'm just surprised to see you.” He ignored the burning intensity of Derek's glare, looking at Stiles. “I've read your file so many times, on so many different networks, that it feels like we've already met. There are a lot of people looking for you.”

“And who do you plan on turning him over to?” Boyd asked, defensively.

“None of them,” Theo said, his voice calm. “I just collect information, to see what's of interest. And that just happens to be you, Stiles.”

Stiles felt his chest tighten, his pulse hammering in his ears.

“Let's see if I remember this.” Theo thought for a moment. “Mieczyslaw Stilinski—the last Orange, besides myself.”

“I'm not the last,” Stiles said defensively.

“Right—Matt Daehler. But he doesn't exactly count; you and I are the last non-psychotic Oranges,” Theo said quietly. He continued, “Born in Beacon Hills, California, but raised in Salem, Virginia, by his parents: John Stilinski, the sheriff of the police department, and Claudia Stilinski, a teacher—”

“Stop,” Stiles said quietly.

“Attended Salem Elementary School until your tenth birthday when your father called into the station to report and unknown child in his house.

“Stop it,” Stiles begged, tears welling in his eyes as his voice scratched at his throat.

Derek looked over his shoulder at Stiles, glancing back and forth between him and Theo.

Theo continued, “But, unfortunately, the PSFs beat the police to your house. Luckily, someone dropped the ball or they had other kids to pick up, so they didn't pre-sort you, giving you the chance to avoid detection when you entered Thurmond.”

“Stop!”

He didn't want to hear this—didn't want anyone to hear it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Derek growled, putting himself between Stiles and Theo. “Can't you see you're upsetting him?”

“I'm just excited to meet him,” Theo said. “It's not often that you get to meet another Orange.”

 _So it's true_ , Stiles thought. _The rumours are true. He's really an Orange... He might actually be able to help me_.

“But... weren't you reformed?” Stiles asked slowly. “Isn't that why they let you out?”

“You of all people should know that they can't reform _anything_ at Thurmond,” Theo said. “How is Thurmond, anyway? Still a shit hole?”

When Stiles didn't reply, Theo continued, “I had the honour of being its first inmate—got to see them build the Mess Hall, brick by brick. Did they really hang my picture everywhere?”

“Everywhere. Not just in Thurmond,” Boyd muttered quietly enough that Theo didn't hear.

“So, if you're Stiles–” Theo continued, looking from Stiles to Derek. “Then you must be Derek Hale. I've read your file too.” There was a hint of admiration in his voice.

“Anything good in there?” Boyd asked, teasingly.

“The PSFs and skip tracers have been following your every move,” Theo said. “Which means you need a place to lie low for a while, right?”

Derek hesitated for a moment before nodding.

“You made a good choice coming here. You can stay as long as you need.” He took a step back, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Now that I've managed to upset everyone, Corey, why don't you take them to a cabin and I'll get them set up in the rotation.”

“Cabin eighteen?” Corey asked.

Theo nodded and turned to look at Stiles, a smile toying with the corners of his lips.

Stiles felt a warm, hazy feeling flood his brain, his pulse hammering in his ears. He couldn't stop the image that flooded his mind. He was standing alone in the room with only Theo, his stormy grey eyes were soft and he held a bright red rose in his hands. He brushed the ball of his thumb against the velvety petal and held it out to Stiles.

 _Forgive me?_ His voice rang through Stiles’ head.

Stiles tore his eyes away, his heart hammering against his chest. He felt numb as he held Isaac close to his side. Derek set a hand on his back and guided him out of the room. His mink was hazy, his body moving by habit. He slowly drew back to reality, blinking his eyes several time before he realised his face was shielded by shadows.

He drew back slightly, looking up from where he had buried his face in Derek's shoulder. He felt his mind come alive, buzzing as it reached for whoever was closest to him.

He pulled himself free of Derek’s hold, panic coursing through him.

Derek met his gaze, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

The ache in Stiles' mind grew stronger, reaching for Derek. Stiles shook his head.

“Not now,” Stiles whispered as he pushed himself away from Derek.

Derek's brow furrowed in confusion, but after a second, he took a step back, giving Stiles some space.

“When you're ready,” Derek whispered, nodding towards the cabin. He turned and bounded up the stairs.

Stiles didn't follow. He turned and walked away.

He needed to get as far away from them as possible.

He didn’t think, he just let his legs carry him down the nearest trail, disappearing into the thicket of the forest.

The dry husks of leaves crackled beneath his feet, the rich smell of sweet petrichor filling his lungs as he walked along the muddy train and further into the woods.

The trees towered over them, beams of sunlight streaming through the canopy.

Crystal-like droplets of dew gathered on the wavering blades of grass and delicate flowers grew along the edge of the path, filling the undergrowth with bursts of colour: white, purple, yellow, and blue. The undergrowth had clawed its way across the path; branches, bare roots, and clusters of flowers nearly tripping him as he made his way down the track and towards the sound of water.

The trees gave way to a small T-shaped dock that sat on the edge of the lake.

The path was blocked by a length of rope and a hastily-made wooden sign that read ‘DO NOT ENTER’.

Stiles ignored the sign, lifted the rope, and slid under it.

The sun-bleached wooden boards were aged and creaked beneath his feet as he made his way to the end of the deck.

His legs collapsed beneath him as he reached the end of the dock. He drew his legs up to his chest and hung his head, listening as the sound of kids laughing and yelling drifted through the trees. He tried to focus on the quiet lapping of water against the shore and the sound of waves crashing against the pillars that held up the dock, but it wasn’t enough. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the echo of Theo’s voice out of his head.

 

 

The cabin was small, the thin walls built from wooden planks that bowed with age, the rough grains filled with shadows and the faintest scent of pine.

A bunk bed sat up against one wall, a double bed futon crammed in beside it with just enough room to slide between them. At the foot of the bunk bed was a small dresser on which Derek had set down all their bags.

Boyd had called dibs on the top bunk, his long leg hanging over the edge as he laid on the bed to read.

Isaac was sitting on the futon when Stiles came in, Derek sitting beside him and waiting as Isaac scribbled a message in his notebook.

The rusted hinges to the fly-wire door creaked as it opened.

Isaac’s eyes flew up. He tossed aside his notebook and staggered to his feet, running across the futon’s mattress and throwing himself into Stiles’ arms.

Stiles hugged him back, wrapping his arms around Isaac and holding onto him as the boy refused to let go.

“You alright?” Derek asked.

Stiles nodded.

“Isaac wants to know if you want to share a bed with him again, or…” He faltered, dropping his gaze.

“Or what?” Stiles prompted.

Derek’s face flushed red. “Or, uh… with me,” he finished.

Stiles bit into his lower lip, his face flushed bright red.

“I, uh…” Stiles stammered. “I don’t mind.”

Derek looked up at Stiles through his lashes, his pale aventurine eyes meeting Stiles’.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Would you two just get a room already,” Boyd growled from the top bunk.

“We’ve got one,” Derek replied. “You’re always welcome to get out.”

Without another word, Boyd dropped his book, kicked both legs over the edge of the bunk and dropped down, his face fixed in a scowl as he walked past Stiles and Isaac and stormed out of the cabin.

“Hey,” Stiles called after him, his voice soft.

Boyd turned back to him. “I’m fine,” he said. “I just want to be alone for a bit.”

Stiles nodded, watching as Boyd turned his back on them, burying his hands in his pockets and walking away. Stiles turned back to Derek, his expression a mix of confusion and concern.

“Don’t mind him,” Derek said quietly. “He’s been like this ever since we got here.”

Stiles knew how he felt. He was so used to it being just the four of them that suddenly being around so many people, even if they were kids like them, was overwhelming. If Boyd hadn’t liked it when _one_ new person invaded his world, Stiles could only imagine what having nearly two hundred people introduced into their lives must be like to him.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something else when the dinner bell rang out through the cool air. Other bells rang in response, the sound echoing out across the camp grounds.

Stiles carefully set Isaac down on his feet and took his hand.

Derek stood up, passing the boy his notebook and pen before leading the way out of the cabin and down into the centre of the camp where kids gathered around a raging bonfire for dinner, chatting and laughing.

The dancing flames crackled as the glowing tendrils reached towards the dimming sky.

The kids from the kitchen had set out tables with slow cookers set atop of them. Large charred pots sat atop the cookers, full of bubbling chilli. The smell drifted through the air, making Stiles mouth water.

Kids lined up, a dozen at a time, clutching their plastic bowls to their chests as they waited for their turn at the pots.

The kids in charge of the kitchen ran back and forth between the office building and the tables, using smaller pots to fill the larger ones.

Isaac pulled Stiles towards the large logs that surrounded the bonfire, pulling him down next to him.

Moments later, Derek made his way towards them, carrying a bowl of chilli in each hand. He sat down next to Stiles, handing him one of the bowls of chilli and two spoons.

Stiles set the bowl down in his lap and passed Isaac the other spoon.

The boy began to eagerly shove spoonfuls of chilli into his mouth. His eyes lit up with joy; it was the first warm meal they had had in a while, and it was drastically different to the tasteless slop they served in Thurmond.

Stiles couldn't help but smile as he began to eat too, surrendering nearly two thirds of the bowl to Isaac's appetite. Derek offered to share his bowl with Stiles, but Stiles shook his head. He wasn’t all that hungry; his stomach still twisting over what had happened with Theo earlier.

Derek took his empty bowl and set it in one of the tubs of dishes, watching with a smile as Isaac leapt to his feet and ran over to the small space on the other side of the fire that was decorated with strings of fairy lights and small paper lanterns. A group of kids gathered there, dancing to the music that a few kids were playing.

Stiles felt the warmth of the fire fill his veins, making him feel drowsy. He slid off the log and onto the blanket of soft grass, settling himself between Derek's legs and resting his head against the teen's knee.

Derek gently ran his hand through Stiles' hair, his soft touch sending shivers down Stiles' spine.

“That reminds me,” Derek said quietly. “Would you believe Isaac started jumping up and down with excitment when I told him he had to be up at seven to go to Cubbies?”

“Cubbies?” Stiles repeated back.

“The daily lessons they have for the little ones,” Derek explained. “Kind of like school. Math, science, history, reading, that sort of thing.”

Stiles let his eyes drift across the space. There were a few kids nearby strumming at guitars or drumming on the log with their spoons or sticks they had picked up off the ground. Most of the kids just sat around the fire, talking quietly or playing card games.

Derek slid down behind him, fitting himself in the space between Stiles and the log.

The air around the dancing fire shimmered with heat, making Stiles' eyes grow unfocused. The warmth of the fire and the feeling of Derek behind him made Stiles' muscles weaken. He leant back, resting his head against Derek's chest and letting the older boy hold him close.

Derek gently reached up and brushed back the strands of hair that clung to Stiles' temples. He ran his hands through Stiles hair, his fingers laced through the tousled soft locks.

Stiles let out a sigh and let his head roll back towards Derek's touch.

Derek pressed a kiss to his temple, resting his head on Stiles' and wrapping his arms around Stiles.

“You okay now, darlin'?” Derek whispered in his ear.

Stiles nodded, looking down as he ran his fingers along the bare skin of Derek's forearms, tracing the defined muscles and veins. He took in the details: Derek's bruised knuckles, the shallow cuts and pale pink scars that marred his wide hands. He slid his hand into Derek's lacing their fingers together.

“I just needed to be alone for a little while,” Stiles said quietly. “I'm okay now.”

“All right,” Derek whispered. “Next time, just don't go where I can't find you.”

There was a weakness in his voice that made Stiles' heart ache. He gave Derek's hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Stiles let himself relax, let his body melt into Derek's warmth. The longer he sat there, the quieter his mind grew, and the aches and pains that filled his body began to fade away.

Eventually, someone brought out an old radio, setting it down and pressing play. The sound of Beach Boys rang through the air as the kids began to dance and sing along.

Isaac ran back over to them, his sapphire blue eyes pleading as he gently tugged at Stiles' hand.

“No, no, no,” Stiles said with a smile, shaking his head.

Derek didn't nearly have enough willpower.

Stiles couldn't help but chuckle as Isaac tugged at Derek's arm excitedly. The teen carefully unwound his arms from around Stiles and rose to his feet, letting Isaac drag him over to where the group of kids were dancing.

He watched Derek take Isaac's hand and spin the boy in circles, the two of them dancing to 'Barbara Ann' and 'Fun, Fun, Fun'. He watched Derek's aventurine eyes sparkle as they reflected the strings of lights overhead. He should have known they were up to something when the two of them turned towards Stiles with matching mischievous grins.

Derek held up a hand, wiggling a finger and beckoning Stiles forward.

Stiles laughed and shook his head. “No.”

Derek's grin grew wider, more devious, as he mimed the action of throwing a lasso. Stiles felt something tug at his belly button as Derek pretended to grab the rope and pull it in.

“No,” he gasped, but his voice was lost in a fit of laughter as a familiar, warm sensation began to pull him forward. He didn't fight it. He was lifted off his feet, gliding across the space and into Derek's arms.

“No fair,” he whined.

“Come on, Green,” Derek said, his low voice filling Stiles' chest with warmth. “Just one dance.”

“I can't dance,” Stiles admitted.

Isaac spun in circles around them as 'Wouldn't it Be Nice' began to play.

Derek's hand slid down Stiles' arm, his soft touch sending shivers down Stiles' spine. He gently took Stiles' hand in his own, lifting it up and resting it on his shoulder before settling his hand on Stiles' waist and holding onto Stiles' other hand.

“Stand on my feet,” he whispered.

Stiles levelled his gaze with Derek's, an incredulous look passing over his face.

“Trust me,” Derek said. “Come on, before our song's over.”

Stiles let out a reluctant sigh and shifted so that his feet sat on top of Derek's.

“A little closer, Green,” Derek whispered. “I won't bite.”

Stiles let out a soft chuckle, trying to steady his racing heart. He leant forward, resting his head against the curve of Derek's shoulder, his shoulders sagging as the tension in his body faded away. He grabbed at Derek's shirt, feeling the older boy smile as he rested his head atop Stiles' and gave his other hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“No spinning,” Stiles said.

“No spinning,” Derek promised.

Derek began to move, holding Stiles close as he swayed back and forth, slowly at first.

Stiles curled into Derek more, inhaling his soft musk and settled into a sense of safety and comfort that he hadn't felt in a long time. He let his mind drift away as they swayed back and forth.

Stiles shifted slightly, resting his cheek on Derek's shoulder and looking back across to the crackling bonfire. He watched the flames flicker and dance, embers drifting towards the clear starry sky like glowing fireflies. The air around the fire grew hazy and Stiles' heart skipped a beat, a shudder clawing its way up his spine as he realised that thin haze was the only thing separating him from where Theo Raeken stood, his storm-grey eyes watching Stiles.


	15. Chapter 15

Stiles woke before everyone else the next morning.

He looked down at the boy who laid next to him. Isaac was curled into a ball, cocooned in blankets and fast asleep.

He was careful not to wake the boy as he slid out from under the blankets and climbed out of bed. He shrugged on his jacket and crept out of the cabin. He stood still for a moment, inhaling the sweet morning air. The smell of pine and petrichor filled his lungs, soothing him and breathing life into his veins.

The sun had barely crept towards the horizon, lighting the sky with azure blue and soft orange, and casting a pale light over the campgrounds. A thin mist drifted through the trees, the air still and the world silent.

He sat down on the edge of the porch, leaning against the railing as he waited and watched as the sun rose and the world burst into vivid colours.

Time drifted by. The others began to stir. A few kids dressed in black made their way down to the gardens, others stirring and making their way into the kitchen. Not long after, bells rang out through the camp and the silence was soon filled with the chatter of sleepy children as they woke to another day.

Stiles rose to his feet and made his way back into their cabin to get dressed, waiting for the others out on the decking.

Isaac ran out of their cabin, holding his jacket and notebook in one hand and his shoes in the other.

Stiles couldn't help but smile, holding out his hand and taking the shoes from Isaac. He helped Isaac put on his shoes and tighten the Velcro straps before walking him over to the ring of logs that surrounded the dull grey ashes of last night's bonfire.

The kids from the kitchen served breakfast: scrambled eggs that had been gathered from the chicken coop in the gardens earlier that morning, fresh fruit that they had brought into camp yesterday, or steaming porridge that smelt deliciously sweet.

Stiles and Isaac got their breakfasts and sat down together on a log.

Stiles felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his hypervigilance making him shift nervously. It felt as if someone was watching him.

He glanced over his shoulder to the large, dusty window of the camp office that overlooked the grounds. His heart skipped a beat as his eyes focused on the pale face behind the glass. Theo.

The teen stood in the window, his cold eyes watching Stiles.

Stiles turned away, swallowing hard as he tried to ignore the feeling of Theo’s eyes burning into his back.

After breakfast, he walked Isaac to one of the larger cabins that served as a classroom, then made his way to the kitchens.

Corey had mentioned that everyone over thirteen had to work to earn their keep in camp, but Stiles hadn't realised that the work was assigned to you. He would have preferred to be out in the gardens with Boyd or patrolling the woods with Derek as part of the security detail, but he was assigned to the kitchen: taking inventory and organising the pantry.

It was simple enough work and it kept him distracted.

He worked with Tracy, the girl with long dark brown hair and dark eyes that he had met the day before.

Tracy was in charge of the kitchens. She’d been living in East River for nearly two years after she had narrowly escaped being captured by PSFs when they pulled over her parents' car in Maryland.

“And you just got out and ran?” Stiles asked.

“As fast as I could,” Tracy replied, passing him a few packets of rice. “I didn't have anything on me except for the clothes on my back. I tried to meet up with my parents again, but they never went back to our old house. After a while, I got picked up by a group of Greens and they brought me here–they left about a year ago though.”

Stiles kept working as she explained the rules for leaving: there has to be a group of five or more people, Theo has to decide whether or not it's safe for them to leave, and they have to swear on their lives not to reveal anything about East River unless it's to another kid in need, and even then, only to give the same clue that Derek and Boyd had been given – EDO.

“It's to keep everyone safe,” Tracy explained, passing Stiles more boxes to stack on the shelves. “It would kill Theo if something happened to a kid because of him.”

Stiles felt himself soften a little.

“What are you doing?”

Stiles jumped, heart lurching into his throat. He spun around, his eyes meeting Theo’s blue-grey eyes focused on Stiles.

Theo stood in the doorway, looking at Stiles with a puzzled expression. His hair had been pulled back from his face, messed up slightly by the wind.

“We're taking inventory,” Tracy answered. “Is something wrong?”

Theo shook his head slightly, snapping out of whatever dazed state he had been in. “No, sorry. Stiles, would you mind coming with me for a second? I think there was some confusion with your assignment.”

Stiles’ frowned in confusion, but he followed Theo nonetheless. “I was assigned to Storage,” Stiles said once they were standing on the narrow decking out the front of the kitchen.

“I didn't assign you to anything,” Theo said. “I specifically told Corey that.”

Stiles folded his arms over his chest, feeling defensive. “I'm capable of pulling my own weight.”

“I have no doubt that you are,” Theo said softly.

Out in the sunlight, his eyes took on an icy-blue hue. His hair seemed honey-brown in the daylight, streaked with seams of gold. He was dressed quite like yesterday, wearing a pair of dark jeans and a pale grey dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tan skin and rippling muscles of his forearms.

But there was something about him that Stiles couldn't put his finger on—some kind of energy, confidence, or charm that drew in Stiles' attention.

“I know you probably won't ever come around to liking me after our introduction yesterday,” he said, “but I am sorry. It didn't occur to me that you were keeping that information a secret.”

“What has that got to do with my work assignment?” Stiles asked, a hint of anger adding an edge to his voice.

For a while, Theo didn't say anything at all, he just stared.

“Will you stop?” Stiles growled, shifting anxiously on his feet. “If I say you're forgiven, will you stop staring at me?”

His mouth turned up in a smirk. “No.”

Theo took a step forward and Stiles a step back, his foot slipping off the porch and into the mud. Theo took another step forward, but this time, Stiles didn't move; he stood his ground, jaw tensed and levelling his eyes with Theo’s defiantly.

“The reason I told Corey not to assign you to anything is because I was hoping you'd come work with me,” Theo said.

 “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He reached forward, resting his hand on Stiles' arm.

Stiles let out a sharp gasp, his head filled with a static that felt like a swarm of bees had been set loose inside his head. He strained to open his eyes, his mind flooded with milky-white images of the two of them in Theo's office, sitting on the rug in front of his desk and staring at each other as fire devoured everything around them.

 _This isn't real_.

But it _felt_ real. He was burning up from the inside, his body filled with searing the fire burnt the air from his lungs. He watched as the flames caressed his skin, leaving bloody red welts and acidic blisters that were about to burst.

_This isn't real. It's not real._

Tears trailed down his cheeks, his vision black around the edges.

Theo must have pulled his hand back because Stiles was thrown back into reality, gasping for air and blinking tears from his eyes.

“You can't block me,” Theo said, his voice a mix of surprise and concern. “Do you even know how to use your abilities? Can you control them?”

Stiles' lip trembled. He shook his head.

Theo's expression softened, his shoulders falling slack for a moment. “Look, I know how it is; I struggled with it too. I know how lonely it is to not be able to touch someone, how terrifying it is to be trapped in someone else's head without knowing the way out. Everything I learnt, I had to teach myself, and it was awful. I want to help you. I can teach you things, tricks—how to control your abilities and use them the way they're meant to be used.”

Stiles felt his hands trembling.

He had come here for one reason: to ask the Slip Kid for help, and now that Theo had offered, he couldn't even bring himself to talk.

Theo reached forward again, setting his hand on Stiles' arm and gently brushing his thumb against his sleeve. “Think about it, okay? If you decide you want to, just come up to the office. I'll clear my schedule for you.”

Stiles pressed his lips together, biting down on his tongue.

“There's nothing wrong with wanting to know how to use your abilities,” Theo said softly.

“I'll think about it,” Stiles answered abruptly, cutting him off.

Theo nodded. “Just listen to your gut,” he said before to walk towards the stairs that lead up to his office. A group of kids called out to him from near the fire pit. Theo smiled and waved to them, the way he would for cameras.

_Listen to your gut._

So why was it at odds with his head?

 

 

He needed to get away from everything, needed to clear his head.

Theo had offered him everything he could have asked for: a way to avoid doing to others what he'd done to his parents and Scott, a way to not live in constant fear of what he could do, a way to be with Derek. So why hadn't he said 'yes' then and there?

He took off down the track that led to the wooden dock, ducking under the rope and stepping out onto the pier. He pulled up short as he realised there was someone else sitting on the dock.

Boyd spun around at the sound of Stiles' footsteps on the wooden boards, eyes wide with shock. His shoulders dropped as he realised who it was. He turned back to the water, watching the light play across the rippling surface of the lake.

“Great,” he said dryly. “You caught sitting on my own, staring at a lake. I'm officially my grandma.”

Stiles chuckled, sitting down next to him. “Didn't you have Garden duty today?”

“I got tired of hearing some girl coo over how smart Slip Kid is for making us plant carrots,” Boyd said.

“Sounds insufferable,” Stiles muttered.

“Aren't you meant to be on Storage duty?” Boyd asked.

Stiles didn't answer.

Boyd leant forward slightly, his brows knitted together as he looked at Stiles. “You feeling alright? You look like you're going to be sick. You having headaches or feeling dizzy?”

Stiles let out a dry laugh.

“Oh,” Boyd said, “That kind of head trouble.”

Stiles said nothing, his unfocused eyes watching the rippling water. After a while, he turned to look at Boyd. “You said Miguel taught you how to use your abilities?”

“Pretty much,” Boyd answered. “That was the only way I was ever going to learn; if some other kid taught me. It just... it took me a while to decide.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought that if I didn't use them, they'd eventually go away,” Boyd admitted, his voice quiet. “There's scientific evidence that if we stop using a part of our brains, those neural pathways eventually cease to function. I thought that if I didn't use my abilities, they’d go away, and things might go back to normal.” After a moment, he asked, “Did Theo offer to help you with your abilities?”

Stiles nodded. “I said I'd think about it.”

“What's there to think about?” Boyd asked, looking as if he was about to smack Stiles over the back of the head for being so stupid. “Didn't you say that you wanted to come here so that you could learn how to control it? That you want to?”

“Yeah, but–” _I'm afraid of how much I don't know. I'm afraid of what I'll become if I use my abilities._

“You need to learn to control it, otherwise it'll always control you,” he said. “It'll scare you and manipulate you until you go crazy, die, or they find the cure. And guess which one of those things will probably happen first.”

He let Boyd's words sink in. “You're really think they're going to find a cure?” Stiles asked.

“My dad used to say that anything is possible when you put your mind to it.” A sweet, nostalgic smile played across his lips as he thought about his dad.

At the mention of his father, stiles felt his chest ache. “You still haven't had a chance to send your parents the message?”

“I've asked around, but there's only one computer in this entire godforsaken place, and only one person gets to use it.”

“Theo,” Stiles said, remembering the silver laptop that sat on his desk. “Did you ask him if you can use it for a few minutes?”

“Yeah,” Boyd said. “He said no. Apparently it's a ‘security risk’ if someone other than him touches it.”

“I'll ask for you,” Stiles offered. “Maybe I can convince him.”

Boyd turned to look at him, his face lit with a hopeful expression. “Could you?”

“I can try,” Stiles said.

“Can you tell him that we have a very important letter to deliver, but we need to be able to look up Miguel's father's new address? Tell him we'll do anything— _I­’ll_ do anything.”

“Or I could just tell him that it's the whole reason we came here in the first place,” Stiles said.

The echo of the camp's bells trailed through the trees. Lunch time.

Boyd rose to his feet, waiting for a second to see if Stiles would follow.

Stiles pushed himself to his feet and began to walk with Boyd back to the camp. Everyone was gathered around the logs by the fire pit, where the kids from the kitchen had set out crates of apples and handed out sandwiches.

Stiles took a sandwich and an apple, wanting to just take the food and run back to the dock or hide in his cabin, but he stayed with Boyd.

Boyd guided him towards the far end of the clearing and settled down at the foot of a tree. A second later, Stiles realised Boyd had picked the spot so they could watch Derek and a few of the kids on the security team play football on their break.

The kids had broken off into two small teams – half of them wearing shirts and the other half stripping down to their pants – and began to run back and forth, passing the ball between teammates and weaving their way towards the goals. Derek got the ball for a few seconds, only to lose it when Brett tackled him to the ground.

Stiles and Boyd winced as he hit the ground with a heavy thud.

“He really wasn't kidding when he said he was bad at sports,” Stiles said through gritted teeth.

“It'd be funny if it wasn't so damn sad.”

The other boys were too busy laughing to continue the game.

Derek laid on the ground, his face flushed red and buried in his hands, but his shoulders were shaking with laughter. After a while he pushed himself to his feet and stepped back into the middle of the field, smiling as one of his teammates patted him on the back.

He must have heard Stiles and Boyd laughing because his eyes drifted across to them.

He lifted the collar of his shirt and wiped the glistening sweat off his face. The hem of his shirt crept up, giving everyone nearby a glimpse of his golden skin, firm muscles, and the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. He let go of his shirt, the dark fabric falling back into place as Derek flashed Stiles a mischievous smile and winked at him.

Stiles felt his face flush bright red. He bit into his lip as he bowed his head, trying to hide his blush.

Derek let out a low chuckle and turned back to the game.

 

 

Stiles felt his stomach twist nauseatingly as he stood outside the door to Theo's office, his hand raised and ready to knock. But something stopped him.

He heard quiet voices on the other side.

“—not sure we have the kind of numbers to do that. If I sent the amount of kids we need, there wouldn't be enough left here to maintain watch.” It was a girl's voice, soft but firm. Lydia—the head of the security detail.

“I get what you're saying, Lyd, but it would be a waste to miss this opportunity,” Theo said, his voice level and calm. “We're getting low on medical supplied, and Leda Corp has stopped running as many trucks through our area.”

“Are you going on another one of your trips?” Lydia pressed. “Isn't that when you usually pick up tips about shipments?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It's just... you haven't gone on one in almost a year,” she said. “And you used to go every few months. I know we haven't been scavenging for supplies, but maybe if you met with your source—”

“No,” Theo said with finality. “I can't leave this camp anymore. It's not safe.”

The floorboards creaked as someone moved. “Did something come up on the PSF scanner?” he heard Josh ask.

“They heard about the fruit stunt,” Theo said. “It would have been hard to miss, considering you mutilated the driver.” The agitation in his voice grew. “You should have left him there like I told you to. I appreciate you wanting to spread the symbol, but couldn't you have spray-painted it on the truck?”

“Are you afraid this will affect our _image_?” Lydia asked, annoyed.

“Most people have a hard enough time accepting that we're not monsters without reports of us attacking and hurting innocent people,” Theo  said, trying to keep his voice level. “Keep spreading the black, keep using the symbol, but please try to be a little more subtle.”

There was a moment of quiet before Theo spoke again. “I'm sorry to cut this meeting short, but it seems like you both have things under control and I have someone waiting for me.”

Stiles felt his heart lurch into his throat. He pulled his hand back, taking a step back from the door.

“Lyd, plan the hit,” he heard Theo say. “I'll worry about numbers.”

The door opened and a girl with long strawberry-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and stunning green eyes. She looked like she was his age, maybe a year older. Lydia.

Stiles took another step back, burying his hands in his pockets and bowing his head, letting her and Josh pass. When he looked up again, Theo stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame and looking at Stiles with kind eyes and a smile.

“You came.” He pushed himself back onto his feet and nodded towards his office, leading the way into the room.

Stiles hesitated for a second. He drew in a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart beat as he stepped into the room.

Theo sat down in his usual spot behind his desk, nodding towards the chairs in front of him.

Stiles sat down.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked.

“Like you said,” Stiles said quietly. “There's so few of us left.” His fingertips brushed against the wolf keychain in his pocket. _And I want to know how to be around the people I love and not be terrified of erasing myself_.

“I read on the League's network that they weren't able to find any other Oranges aside from you and Matt,” Theo said. “Most of the Reds were killed, apparently. That puts us at the head of the pack.”

“The League's network?” Stiles repeated. “How do you have access to the League's network, or the PSFs?” He gestured around the room. “ _Any_ of this.”

“I have friends everywhere,” Theo said, flashing him a smile. “And my father leaves me alone because he wouldn't be able to stand the outrage if I expose the fact that there is no rehabilitation program, not for people like you and me.”

“You and me,” Stiles repeated.

Theo ran his hand through his hair, raking it back from his face. “The first thing you need to understand, Stiles, is that you and I, we're not like the others. You, me, everyone classified as Orange. We're different. Special. Don't roll your eyes, just listen. The second thing you need to understand is that everyone—my father, the camp controllers, the scientists, the PSFs, the Children's League—they've all been lying to you this entire time. We're special, not because of what we are, but because of what they can turn us into.”

“You're not making any sense.”

Theo stood up, stepping around his desk and sitting down in the chair next to Stiles'. “What if I told you my story first?”

Stiles looked at him, stunned for a second.

“But you have to promise that this stays between us,” he said softly.

Stiles nodded.

“Alright,” Theo said, offering his hand to Stiles. “I'm going to have to show you.”

Stiles pulled his trembling hand from his jacket pocket and slid it into Theo's.

The world dropped away around him as he found himself standing in a memory. He was in an office, surrounded by gunmetal-grey filing cabinets and blinding white walls that still smelt of fresh paint. There was little else around them except for a card table that had been set up as a desk and a steel chair, but Stiles felt his heart sink as he recognised the beginnings of the crescent-shaped machine in the corner of the room.

He saw a man sitting at the desk, his lips moving in a soundless explanation as the boy who sat before him turned his eyes to the piece of paper on the desk. At the top of the letter was the White House emblem.

Stiles felt Theo's presence beside him, the two of them watching the scene play out.

Theo nodded towards the letter and Stiles took a step forward, making his way over to the side of the desk and leaning in. The words came into focus.

 

_Dear Sirs,_

_You have permission to run experimental tests on my son,  
Theodore James Raeken, provided these tests do not leave any visible scars._

 

_Signed,_

_President Jonathan Raeken._

Stiles felt his heart sink into his gut.

The lights in the office grew brighter and brighter, bleaching the memory. Stiles winced, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he opened his eyes again he was in a different room in the Infirmary, this one had large grey tiles on the walls and beeping monitors. Stiles felt the Velcro bands tighten around him as he tried to pull free. The strap dug into his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The overhead lights were drawn closer to his face, making him wince. Scientists and doctors in white scrubs were setting up machines and computers around him, attaching wires to his body and tightening the restraints. Their voices were muffled by the surgical masks and drowned out by the thundering pulse in his ears.

 _No!_ Stiles sobbed.

He wanted to scream.

It was too real.

He clenched his jaw despite the leather muzzle they had strapped to his face. He strained his neck as far as he could, catching sight of the trays of scalpels, drills, and surgical tools.

He saw the reflection of his face – Theo's face – in the nearby observation window, pale and terrified; the same face that would later be hung on every wall around the camp.

The harsh light grew more intense, tears stinging Stiles eyes as he was pulled into another memory. His eyes focused on the hand he was shaking. Pale skin coloured with age spots, wrinkled but soft, not the damaged or calloused by labour. He slowly looked up at the face of the scientist that had haunted every memory before this one. There were men crowding around him, all with the same murky look to their expressions: blank smiles, blanker eyes.

Stiles watched as Theo straightened his back, squaring his shoulders and walking out the main gates of Thurmond.

There was a black car waiting just outside the gates. A man in a tailored black suit stood before the car door, patting Theo's on the back before ushering the boy into the car. It wasn't his father; this man had a long nose and thick black hair that was combed back from his face, his face cleanshaven and his dark eyes emotionless. This man appeared in nearly every memory that; ushering him onto stages in school auditoriums, outside domed state-capitol buildings, and standing nearby – watching over him – as Theo stood in front of cameras at the centres of small towns.

It was the same thing every time.

Every time he stepped out onto stage, he was handed the same set of note cards to read, faced the same expressions of hope and grief on the faces of parents in the crowd, always the same words: _My name is Theo Raeken, and I am here to tell you how the camp rehabilitation program saved my life_.

The cameras flashed, the blinding light leaving negative impressions of faces in his mind. He blinked the bursts of colour out of his eyes, finding himself standing in front of a photographer as he turned the monitor around to show them the photograph, the same on they printed on the posters that hung on every wall around the camps.

The next memory Theo showed him seemed drastically different. He was inside a cheap hotel room that smelt of cigarettes. The paint was peeling off the wall and the only thing in the room aside from the bed was an old wooden closet and a chair in the corner of the room.

It was dark, the curtains drawn shut and the sheets pulled up over the teen's body as exhaustion crept in. Theo’s eyes were heavy, his body weak as he let himself drift off to sleep.

The sound of the closet doors creaking jolted him awake. His eyes flew open as his heart slammed against his ribs. He shifted slightly, just enough to see a shadowy silhouette morph out of the darkness. The light of the alarm clock beside the bed cast an eerie glow across the room. He caught a glance of the man’s black jacket, his black ski mask, and a glint of sliver in his hand; a gun.

The man lunged forward.

Theo threw the covers back and kicked his leg out, his heel hitting his attacker in the chest and sending the man staggering backwards. He leapt out of the bed and ran towards the door, but the man caught his ankle.

He hit the floor with a painful thud, the air knocked from his lungs.

His attacker flipped him onto his back, pinning his forearm against Theo's throat.

He kicked out, searing pain flooding his lungs as he choked on his breath. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, his hands clawing at the rug and the man's arms. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision as he tried to scream, but the only sound that came out was a chokes rasp.

He lashed out, the heel of his hand striking the man's face, but he didn't release his grip on the teen.

He man reached for his gun, cocking it and pressing it against Theo's forehead.

 _Stop._ His lips formed the word, but his voice caught in his throat. _Stop!_

The man did, his dark eyes glazing over. He sat back, the gun falling to the carpet as he just sat there.

Theo rolled onto his side, coughing and wheezing as air flooded his lungs again. He blinked the tears from his eyes, pulling himself from under the man’s weight and scrambling to his feet. He grabbed the gun and uncocked it before shoving it into the waistband of his pants.

He grabbed his winter coat from where he had laid it over the back of the chair in the corner of the room and pulled it on, hurrying out into the hallway.

He froze, turning back and forth as he looked for the agent who was meant to stand guard.

A look of fear and dread passed over his face as he realised what had happened.

The light of the hallway seeped into his room as he stepped back inside and over to the man who sat near the foot of his bed, unmoving and unresponsive. His hand shook as he reached out and pulled the ski mask from the man's face.

Strands of long black hair fell forward over the man’s face, his perfectly combed hair messed up by the ski mask. His dark eyes stared into oblivion, unfocused and unresponsive. But there was no doubting it was him.

Theo’s heart sank as he swallowed hard against the bile that burnt his throat. His lips trembled as he fought back tears of shock and betrayal.

He let the mask fall from his grip, his eyes focused on the man's face as he backed out of the room again. He ran down the hallway, shoving open the door to the stairwell and sprinting down the stairs. He shoved open the back door and burst into the alleyway behind the hotel. His bare feet splashed the oily puddles, rippling the reflections of neon lights as he ran down the graffitied alleyway.

The bitter cold air tore through him, but he didn't have time to stop. The ground scratched at his bare feet as he ran. Voices shouted after him, heavy boots pounding the pavement as they chased him towards the trees, disappearing into the darkness.

“Stiles— _Stiles_!”

Stiles gasped as reality crashed over him.

He looked around, taking in the room around him.

He was in Theo's office.

The world was spinning around him. He felt as if his head was about to explode. He let out a weak whimper, resting his head between his knees to stop himself from throwing up, or passing out, or both.

“They tried to kill you,” Stiles said, his voice scratching at his throat. “Who... Who were they?”

“That man was Sebastian Valet. He was one of the Secret Service agents who were supposed to be guarding me,” Theo explained.

“If they were meant to be protecting you, why would they—?”

“Because my father finally realised I hadn't been rehabilitated at all,” he said. “The only reason they let me out of Thurmond was because I made them think I had been cured. But I got too ambitious. I tried to influence my father, and I got caught.” Theo thought for a moment. “He was worried that the truth about the camps would come out, but he couldn't just take me out of the public eye, not after he had been the one to thrust me into it. I think, in his mind, it was easier to just get rid of me altogether, before I could make trouble. I can only imagine what kind of spin he would put on my murder to gain sympathy from people.”

Stiles stared at him, a thousand questions racing through his head.

Theo rose from his seat, stepping over to a nearby table and pouring a glass of water. He brought it back over to the desk and handed it to Stiles, waiting for him to take a sip before continuing, “After I got out that night, I met Josh, then Lydia, then others. We found this place and went to work, and all the while my father couldn't put a bounty out on me, not without exposing the truth about me and his rehab program. He had to make up some lie about me attending college, to get the press off his back.”

He rose from his seat again, holding his hand out to Stiles.

Stiles took it without being conscious of it, his mind quiet. A wave of calmness washed over him as Theo gently squeezed his hand.

“When I read about you—when I heard your story—I knew I had to meet you,” he said quietly. “I had to make sure you knew the truth about what was going on, so you wouldn't be caught in the dark like I was.”

“The truth?” Stiles repeated. “What do you mean?”

“The woman who broke you out of Thurmond—the League agent? What did she tell you about the White Noise they used that day?”

“That the camp controllers had embedded a frequency in it that only Oranges, Reds and Yellows could detect,” he said. “She said they were trying to pick out any of the dangerous ones who were still hiding or had gone undetected.”

Theo let go of his hand, reaching across his desk to turn his laptop around so that it faced them. On the screen was a photo of Stiles the day they had brought him into the camp, eleven years old with a mop of brown hair wet from the rain and clinging to his face, his dark eyes wide with fear. The text beside it wasn't his history or his profile, it was an article.

“Read the second paragraph aloud,” Theo said.

Stiles looked at him, confused, but did as he was told. “‘The Camp Controller discovered a discrepancy in the Calm Control at 05:23 the following morning, after noticing an underlying frequency that had been added without his consent. Upon further investigation of the recording devices in the Mess Hall, he came to the conclusion that the outbreak of violence there that provoked the use of the Calm Control at approximately 11:42 was directly provoked by undercover operatives from the terrorist group known as the Children's League. He believes these same operatives planted an identification frequency in the Calm Control. Psi subjects 3285 and 5312, who were taken from camp boundaries at approximately 03:34 by a Children's League operative, are now believed to have been mistakenly identified as Green upon their initial classification...’”

“Keep going,” Theo said as his voice began to rail off.

“'Subjects 2385 and 5312 are believed to be highly dangerous Orders have been issued for their immediate recapture and reprocessing'— _reprocessing_?” Stiles turned to look at Theo, his eyes wide with shock. “So, they didn't know... they didn't... They didn't know I was an Orange until _after_ I got out?”

Theo nodded.

“Then I wasn't in any danger? They wouldn't have killed me?”

“Oh, you were definitely in danger,” he said. “They had all of the pieces, and it just took one curious mind to put it all together. But if you're asking whether or not you would have been caught if the League hadn't planted the frequency—then the answer is no, probably not.”

“Then why did they do it?” Stiles demanded, feeling anger and betrayal course through him. “It seems like a huge risk to take to only get a few kids.”

“A few extremely rare, valuable kids,” Theo corrected. “Kids that would have been killed otherwise.” Seeing Stiles' expression, he added, “You didn't really think they let any of the kids like us live, did you? Not Oranges. Yellows, yes, because their threat can be contained, but not Oranges. They fear what they cannot control, and they cannot control us. So they kill us.”

“What about the Reds?” Stiles asked. “Were they killed too?”

Theo shook his head. His voice was quiet as he said, “Their fate was worse.”

He folded his arms over his chest.

“They were forced into the president's classified program: Project Jamboree. Dear Dad's been training himself a special army using all the Reds they took from the camps.” He turned his blue-grey eyes on Stiles. “Do you see now, why the Children's League would be so interested in finding any particularly dangerous kids for their own?”

Stiles shook his head. “How? How can they do this? The Reds…”

“What other choice do they have?” Theo asked. “They're made to think that if they didn't cooperate, something would happen to their families. The Reds undergo special conditioning to make them think that they're needed and cared for. Before my father and his advisers realised I was influencing them, I was able to supervise enough of the program to make sure that they would be cared for—better than if they had been in camps, at least.”

Stiles let it all sink in.

“Don't be afraid for them,” Theo said. “They'll get out from under my father's control one day.”

Theo crouched before him.

“Stiles,” he whispered.

Stiles turned to look at him.

“Let me show you what I know,” He said softly, reaching out with one hand to brush back a few strands of Stiles' unruly hair. “No one will be able to hurt you or change you if you can fight them off. What do you say?”

Stiles swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

“Teach me.”


	16. Chapter 16

Theo had a magnetic personality, one that drew everyone to him. Stiles saw it firsthand when Theo offered to give him a tour of the camp. He'd wave at the kids in black who sat around the fire pit, or smile and say hello to those who passed them.

“Do you ever talk to any of them about what you've been through?” Stiles asked.

Theo seemed taken aback by the question. He tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slumping with thought.

“They've put their trust in me,” he said with a small smile. “I don't want to worry them. They have to believe I can take care of them, otherwise our system wouldn't work.”

“But surely it would be comforting for them to know that you’re just as scared as they are?” Stiles suggested.

“Maybe,” Theo answered. “But we have to put on brave faces, pretend everything’s alright and it’s all going to be okay in the end, otherwise we’re just a group of kids cowering in woods.”

Stiles was about to say something else when a girl from the gardens with thick black curls came rushing over to them her clothes caked in mud and her face flushed red with anger.

Theo tried to calm her down as she told him that boys had been stealing from the gardens.

They followed her down the short track to the gardens where three Green boys who barely looked fourteen had been left sitting in the dark dirt.

It took two seconds of listening to Theo calmly talk the situation through for Stiles to realise that East River wasn't built on a foundation of unwavering rules but rested almost entirely on his good judgement and what everyone perceived to be fair.

Stiles stayed off to the side as Theo knelt down before the boys.

“Did you boys steal the fruit?” he asked gently.

The three boys shot sheepish looks at each other. The boy in the middle, who looked to be the eldest of the three, nodded. “We did,” the eldest said. “And we’re really sorry.”

“Thank you for being honest,” Theo said. “Can I ask why?”

The boys were silent for a few minutes.

Finally, Theo was able to coax the truth out of them.

“Noah’s been really sick,” the eldest boy said. “He hasn’t been able to come to meals. He didn’t want anyone to know because he thought he’d get in trouble for not coming to Cleaning Duty this week, and he didn’t want to let you down. We’ve been pulling double duty to cover for him and taking some fruit and vegetables from the gardens so that he had something to eat. We’re sorry, we’re really sorry.”

“I understand,” Theo said, his voice level and calm. “If Noah’s sick, you should have told me.”

“You said at the last camp meeting that the med stuff was low,” the boy on the left said quietly. “He didn’t want to take any medicine, in case someone else needed it.”

“If Noah’s too sick to come to meals, it sounds like he needs it,” Theo pointed out. “You know that when you take from the garden, there’s a chance that it could throw off the meals we have for everyone, right?”

The boys nodded, looking miserable.

Theo looked up at the kids gathered around them and asked, “What would you like them to do in return for taking the fruit?”

The girl with the thick curls opened her mouth, but one of the older boys who stood nearby, leaning his weight on his rake, spoke before she could. “If they’re willing to help weed the garden for a few days, a couple of us will take turns sitting with Noah and making sure he gets meals and medicine.”

Theo nodded. “That sounds fair. What does everyone else think?”

There was a quiet murmur among the small crowd as they all agreed to the ‘punishment’.

“This isn’t just a one-time problem, Theo,” the girl with thick curls said. “People think they can just come in here and take what they want, and we can’t lock it up like the storeroom.”

“I promise I’ll put it on the agender for the camp meeting next month,” he said, flashing a charming smile that seemed to wash away her anger.

She turned on her heel, snatching the rake from the older boy and storming off into the garden.

“She’s a gem,” Stiles whispered as Theo stepped back over to his side.

“She has a point thought. If we start running low on food in the storeroom, we have to lean on the gardens, and if that’s been picked over, we’re in trouble. I think everyone here has come to understand how interconnected life is at East River. And it’s more beneficial for everyone to make someone make up for their actions by helping out.”

Stiles smiled as he watched the youngest of the three boys tug on gardening gloves that looked a few sizes too big for him.

“Do you mind if I stop by and visit Noah?” Theo asked.

“Of course not,” Stiles said, letting Theo lead the way to the cabin.

The boy was buried under a mountain of blankets—the bare mattresses in the room proof that the other boys had sacrificed their blankets to the pile. The pile shifted as the boy’s flushed face appeared from under the blankets, his eyes weary and his smile weak.

Stiles smiled softly as he said hello and introduced himself.

Theo stayed by Noah for nearly fifteen minutes, telling one of the boys nearby to get some more blankets for the other boys and some medicine from the storeroom.

Stiles waited outside, breathing in the sweet fresh air as he watched the comings and goings of the camp. Kids smiled and waved at him as they passed, as if he had been there for years, not just a few days. He couldn’t help but smile as he waved back.

His eyes drifted across the streams of kids, his chest tightening as he realised that the colour black—the colour he had learnt to fear all these years—gave these kids a sense of solidarity; they weren’t Green, Blue, Yellow, and Orange. They were unified; a colour that was all colours.

Stiles jumped as he heard the door to the cabin shut. He turned to see Theo step across the small balcony and over to his side.

He leant against the railing, looking out across the camp. “You’ll never feel alone here.”

They made their way across the camp and over to the cabin that served as the Cubbies’ classroom. The room was well lit, large windows stretching across one wall and the other three walls decorated with brightly coloured paintings. The kids were crowded on the floor, sitting cross-legged and watching with bright eyes as the teenager at the front of the classroom ran her finger down the length of the Mississippi river painted on a map, but Stiles’ eyes were drawn instantly to Isaac; his thick blonde curls, bright pink gloves, and shimmering sapphire-blue eyes.

The room erupted into cheering when kids realised Theo was standing in the doorway. The girl at the front of the room stepped back and let him take over.

Isaac’s bright blue eyes met Stiles’ and he patted the ground beside him, encouraging Stiles to sit with him.

Stiles couldn’t refuse. He shuffled to the back of the room and sat down next to Isaac as Theo started his lesson on U.S. history.

“Alright,” Theo began, flashing a charming smile. “Who can tell me where we left off?”

“Pilgrims!” the children answered in unison.

“ _Pilgrims_?” Theo repeated back excitedly. “What are those? How about you, Alex? Do you remember who the Pilgrims were?”

A little girl with fiery red hair pulled back in a braid answered, “People in England were being mean to them because of their religion, so they sailed to America and landed at Plymouth Rock.”

“Good job,” Theo said with a bright smile. “Can anyone tell me what they did after they got there?”

About ten hands shot up. Theo picked a boy with freckles at the front.

“They set up a colony,” the boy answered.

“You got it. It was the second English colony, after the one set up in Jamestown in 1607—not too far from where we are now.” Theo turned to the large map that was stretched across the front of the classroom and pointed out both places. “While they were on the _Mayflower_ , they created the Mayflower Compact, which was an agreement that guaranteed everyone would cooperate and act in a way that would be beneficial to the colony. When they arrived, they faced a lot of hardships. But they all worked together and created a community where they were free from the English crown's rule an could practice their faith openly.” He paused for a moment, a mischievous smirk playing across his lips. “Sound familiar?”

The kids looked up at him with wide eyes and adoration.

“Like us,” one of them called out from the back of the room.

“You bet,” Theo said. He talked for the next hour and a half about how the Pilgrims interacted with the native tribes, about Jamestown, about all the things Stiles' mother used to teach at school. And when he was done, he took a small bow and made his way over to the edge of the classroom, holding his hand out to Stiles.

Stiles took it, saying a quiet goodbye to Isaac before letting Theo lead him out of the room.

There were a few groans and complaints from the kids as they left, making them chuckle as they made their way back to the fire pit, where the kids from the kitchen were setting out the large tables and getting ready for dinner.

“Are you going to tell them about how the settlers slaughtered the Native Americans?” Stiles asked after a while.

Theo let out a heavy sigh, thinking about it for a moment. “With time” was all he said.

“You can't just act like it didn't happen,” Stiles said firmly.

“I'm not saying we should,” Theo replied, his voice calm and level. “The sins of our fathers is a lesson we all carry with us. But those kids see themselves as the Pilgrims, building a new life that's free and full of hope. We've spent months trying to teach them they're not monsters, only to tell them that the people they look up to were murderers and monsters?”

Stiles bowed his head. “I get your point.”

“I'm not saying we should ignore what happened, just that we should give them time before we tell them the truth,” Theo said softly.

He led Stiles back across the camp and over to the Office.

“So?” he asked, as he stepped up onto the porch out the front of the Office, listening to the bells ring out across the camp. “What do you think?”

“I think I'm ready for my first lesson,” Stiles said.

A smile played across Theo's lips. “You already had your first lesson. You just didn't realise it.”

 

 

Derek left for patrol duty by the time the rest of them turned in for the night and was still gone when Stiles woke the next morning.

The others woke when the bell rang out through camp.

Stiles helped Isaac get dressed, walking him to breakfast before taking him to Cubbies. He walked with Boyd back across the camp until the older boy begrudgingly turned to make his way down the track to the gardens.

Stiles buried his hands in his pockets as he walked across the camp, his heart hammering in his chest as he made his way over to Theo's office. He waited at the bottom of the stairs, balling his hands into fists to stop them shaking.

Theo finished his morning meeting with Josh and Lydia, the two of them passing Stiles on their way out of the Office.

Josh shouldered his way past Stiles, knocking the boy back as he shoved the door open and stormed into the cold morning air.

Lydia paused at the foot of the stairs and turned to Stiles. Her jade green eyes sparkled in the dim light as she looked at him with concern, her lips moving as if she were trying to find the words. After a second her eyes dulled, drifting away as she pursed her lips together and shook her head. She pushed open the door and walked away, the door swinging shut behind her and leaving Stiles standing alone in the darkness.

“Stiles,” Theo said warmly, his hands buried in his jean pockets as he looked down at Stiles from the doorway. A warm smile lifted the corners of his lips as he nodded towards his office. “Come on in.”

Stiles made his way up the stairs and into the large room. He watched as Theo moved the chairs that sat in front of his desk over to the wall and sat down on the brightly coloured rug that was stretched across the floor.

“Come and sit down.”

Stiles did as he was told, sitting down across from Theo and crossing his legs, mirroring the older boy.

“We're going to start slowly today,” Theo said. “I don't want to sound cliché, but everyone's different. I want to help you, but I need to know you better before I can do that.”

Stiles' heart hammered against his ribs.

“I've read your story, but I need to know your side of it,” Theo explained. “I want you to show me your side of it.”

“You want to - what? – sift through my memories?” Stiles asked.

“I want you to walk me through them,” Theo corrected. “Everything from when you realised you had powers through to today.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Stiles admitted. “I can't show someone something like you can.”

“You don't have to,” Theo said reassuringly. “Looking through memories is like walking through a library or a hallway full of doors, and each door leads to a memory. I'll walk with you, you just have to remember. If there's anything you don't want me to see, imagine shutting a door on it and lock it.”

Stiles nodded hesitantly.

“Just relax,” Theo said softly.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, holding it before slowly exhaling. He let his shoulders fall.

Theo's eyes lit up with a vibrant orange glow and Stiles felt the rush of warmth in his head as his eyes did the same.

He remembered the day his powers had come to him. He remembered waking up in his old bed, his bedroom lit by the dim and dreary morning light. Slowly, details began to come into focus: the soft blue of his walls, the dark wood of the dresser in the corner of the room and the matching bedside table, his alarm clock and lamp, and the bookshelf that sat next to his door; the shelves full of books, plush toys and figurines.

Flurries of sleet danced past his window, rivulets of rain streaming down the glass.

He remembered the sound of running water and his father's deep voice trailing down the hallway.

He walked himself through the memory, making his way downstairs to where his mum was cooking bacon. He remembered the look on his mother's face as she stared at him, her eyes wide with horror and her lips quivering. He remembered her fingers digging into his arm as she dragged him down the hallway and into the garage, shutting the door in his face.

He screamed out for her, tears streaming down his pale cheeks.

There was a moment of quiet before the door opened again.

His dad stepped into the garage, his face soft as he looked down at Stiles. He knelt down on the floor, reaching out a hand to steady Stiles as he wavered.

He remembered how relieved his was when his father talked to him softly, only to have his heart torn out when his father asked, _“Why don’t you start by telling me your name?”_

Stiles’ heart dropped, the air was knocked from his lungs. Tears welled in his eyes as he staggered back. He stared at his dad, eyes widening with shock as he realised what had happened.

They had forgotten him.

He watched his father leave and quickly moving through the darkness to where the cord to the roller door was, tugging at it and listening to the motor rumble as the heavy garage door began to roll up.

A blast of freezing air hit him as he ducked under the garage door and stepped out onto the driveway, the ice air stinging his bare feet.

Blankets of snow covered the front lawn, the skeletal trees that were planted in the yard were nothing more than lifeless husks. At the end of the driveway stood a man in a uniform with dark aviators.

Stiles stared at him for a moment, watching as he knelt in the snow, talking softly as he tried to coax Stiles closer.

Stiles moved slowly over to the man, his frail body shuddering in the cold. It wasn't until he was at the man's side that he realised his mistake: his uniform was black.

The man clenched his fist around Stiles’ hair, dragging the boy to the ground. He knelt on Stiles’ back, knocking the air from the boy’s lungs and silencing his cries as he tightened cold metal cuffs around Stiles’ wrists. He hurled Stiles to his feet and dragged him over to the bus, and no matter how loud or how much Stiles cried, his parents didn't come.

After that, things passed in glimpses: falling rain, the swaying bus, the towering electric fence that encircled the camp, the bloody face of the boy at the back of the bus.

He remembered watching the older boy’s eyes light up orange as he whispered something to the PSF. He remembered the unfocused, glazed look in the PSFs eyes as she readjusted her grip on her rifle and turned it towards herself. She placed the barrel in her mouth, her eyes widening with fear at the last second as she realised what was about to happen and pulled the trigger.

The thundering boom tore through the air.

Stiles’ heart lurched into his throat. His stomach twisted as he watched the blood spray across the side of the bus.

 _“Run!”_ The camp erupted into chaos as the teen's voice finally broke through the hammering pulse in Stiles' ears.

Stiles didn’t move.

The PSFs gunned down the kids that ran.

A group of PSFs charged at the teen with the bloody face, pushing him into the mud. They slammed heavy shackles onto the teen’s wrists and ankles, pulling him back up to his feet. Mud and blood dripped from his face as they wrestled a leather muzzle around his mouth. His eyes still burnt with rage as he glared at the PSFs. But as the teen’s eyes fell on Stiles, the anger washed away as fear and sorrow overcame him.

His next memory was of the sorting doctor, of the room with pale grey walls and white linoleum, and the machine that hung over the bed.

Stiles couldn’t move. Terror flooded his body as his heart hammered against his chest. He felt hot tears well in his eyes as his head began to ache, dread settling in his gut as he realised the man would know what he was.

The doctor stepped around the metal stand, storming towards Stiles. His fist grabbed the boy’s tousled hair, hurling him away from the door.

Stiles yelped, his head exploded in pain as he reached up and grabbed the man’s wrist.

The doctor froze, his pale eyes staring at Stiles, unfocused.

 _“I’m Green,”_ Stiles rasped. He struggled to lift his head, looking up at the doctor’s vacant expression. _“I’m Green,”_ he repeated. _“Please. I’m—”_

 _“Green,”_ the man repeated, his voice drained.

The memories of the next six years drifted by: routine work in the Gardens, the Factory, or the Kitchens; the meals; the cabins; never speaking. They drifted by in a dull haze; grey skies, brown mud, black uniforms, day after day.

Next came the day of the escape: the White Noise that tore him apart from the inside out; Melissa; the pills; waking up int he storage room and getting dressed in scrubs; struggling as they made their way to the car; waking up to the open road and a clear night sky full of stars.

Then came Matt, Rafael, the gas station, Isaac.

He remembered hiding behind the van as the voices drew closer, footsteps thundering through the undergrowth and twigs breaking beneath their boots. He looked through the Jeep’s windows to see Melissa emerge from the trees, Rafael right behind her with his gun in his hand.

His eyes drifted to the boy in the Jeep, his small face twisted in panic as he looked from Stiles to Melissa and Rafael.

Stiles couldn’t do it; he couldn’t put this boy’s life at risk.

He looked over his shoulder at the houses, his mind spinning as he tried to work out a plan. He turned back to the Jeep as the boy turned to look at him and whispered, _“Stay down.”_

Isaac looked at him, confused, as Stiles pushed himself away from the Jeep, glancing out the window one last time before turning to run towards the house with the green roof.

He felt someone grab his backpack, hauling him back into the Jeep before shutting the door and locked it.

He remembered hiding under the blanket, listening to the voices of the others that joined them. He remembered the Jeep speeding down the highway as they tried to get away from the League.

He remembered Derek convincing him to stay, telling him about East River and Slip Kid.

He shut the doors on the memories of the motel room, of his conversation with Derek in the parking lot, of what he had seen in Isaac's nightmare.

The rest of the memories passed: the boys in the Walmart, finding the radio message, returning to Salem.

He remembered standing outside his house, wanting nothing more than to run inside and throw himself into her arms like he used to when he was a kid but knowing that his parents had no idea who he was, and he had no idea how to fix what he'd done.

He turned away and ran, his lungs burning as he fought the sobs that heaved his chest. He sprinted across the road and down the nearby street until he lost himself. He ran as far as he could until he as sure his legs were going to give out. He stumbled to a halt, doubling over. He shoulders heaved in heavy breaths, tears glistening as they rolled down his cheeks. Bile rose into his throat, burning at his oesophagus. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, trying to steady the racing heartbeat that pounded in his ears.

He straightened up, blinking the tears from his eyes. He turned around in circles, trying to work out where he was.

He stood in the middle of a field, the one on the edge of town. Tall pine trees grew around the field and the grass was overgrown, the tall golden stalks dancing about in the light breeze. The obnoxiously bright playground he used to play on still stood at the far end of the field, abandoned and covered in black spray paint. That's where Derek had found him.

He shut the door on their conversation, on their near kiss—he didn't want Theo to see that.

He remembered walking back to the Jeep, remembered the man stepping out of the shadows and hitting him over the head with the butt of his rifle. He remembered the asphalt tearing his face as he hit the ground, splitting pain filling his head. His vision blurred, colours bleeding into a swirling mess and streaks of light scorching his eyes. The White Noise only made it worse.

He heard Kate talking to Derek, heard Derek bargaining with her, but his mind was racing.

Derek squirmed, fighting against his handcuffs and the searing pain that flooded his muscles. He pulled his knees up to his chest, trying to loop his arms around his legs so his hands were in front of him again.

Stiles tried to move, tried to fight back, but his ears were screaming from the White Noise and his body refused to move. His head fell to the side, his eyes focusing on the small figure of a wolf. The keychain.

He couldn't let them hurt him.

A pair of boots came into focus as Kate stepped over to his side. She reached down, holding a gun to Stiles’ jaw as she grabbed a fistful of Stiles’ jacket and hoisted him to his feet.

Stiles grabbed her wrist, his mind filled with the screaming static as his eyes lit up.

Kate’s eyes flew open wide, the pale blue depths growing hazy as Stiles dove into her mind. Her legs weakened beneath her she dropped to her knees before him.

 _“Drop it,”_ Stiles said, forcing the image of her releasing her grip on her gun into her mind.

She held her arm out to the side and did as he had imagined, unfurling her grasp and letting the weapon fall to the ground.

His head was pounding, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. Blood dripped down the side of his face, soaking into the collar of his shirt.

_“You’re going to walk into that forest and keep walking. After an hour, you’re going to sit down and not move. You will not eat, you will not sleep, you will not drink, no matter how much you want to. You will not move.”_

Stiles felt the darkness creeping in, his eyes growing heavy as he dove further into her mind.

 _“You won’t remember any of this,”_ Stiles whispered, feeling his voice falter.

Stiles unfurled his fingers, letting his hand fall to his side.

Kate released her grip on the front of Stiles’ jacket before turning and walking towards the undergrowth.

Stiles pulled back. He scrambled to his feet, staggering backwards. One step. Two steps. He tried to move his legs, tried to get feeling back into his numb limbs.

 _Run_.

His back hit the wall, his body shaking as he heaved in broken breaths.

His chest felt like it was about to cave in. He gasped for air, but his breath never reached his burning lungs. His heart lurched into his throat, his stomach twisting nauseously as tears stung his eyes.

“Stiles,” Theo said, rising to his feet and reaching for the boy.

“Don't touch me,” Stiles shouted, pulling back. “I—I need to be alone.”

He shoved open the office door and ran down the stairs. He sprinted across the camp and up the stairs to their cabin. He shut himself in the cabin, and that's where Derek found him hours later, sitting in the corner of the room with his knees pulled up to his chest and cheeks wet with tears.

“Hey,” Derek said softly, crouching before Stiles. “You okay?”

Stiles bolted upright. He leapt to his feet, wiping away his tears with the sleeves of his jacket. “I'm fine,” he said, his voice raspy.

Derek reached out for him, but Stiles jerked away from him, his eyes wide with terror.

“Why are you scared of me?” Derek asked, pained.

“I'm not scared of you, I'm trying not to hurt you,” Stiles argued.

“Stiles, I don't care if our skin touches and you learn everything about me,” Derek said.

“It's not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I'm scared of doing to you what I did to my parents,” Stiles shouted. “I can't lose you.”

“Stiles, I am never going to forget you,” Derek said with finality.

“You can't make that promise, Derek,” Stiles argued. “You can't help me!”

An expression of pain passed over Derek's face. He turned and stormed out of the cabin.

Stiles realised what he had said too late.

“Derek,” Stiles called after him, shoving open the door and stepping out into the cool air, but Derek was gone.

 

 

Time flew by; two weeks passing by before they knew it.

Stiles spent most of his time locked inside Theo's room, pushing images into his mind, blocking him from trying to do the same, talking about the League, Thrumond, and white Noise, that they soon fell out of sync with the camp's schedule.

Theo had his daily meetings, but instead of asking Stiles to leave, he let him sit on the other side of the white curtain and wait until the meeting ended.

There were times when Theo had to go out an inspect the cabins, or settle disputes., but Stiles almost always stayed up in the attic-like room. There were books, music, and the old TV to keep him entertained while Theo was gone.

He still saw Boyd at mealtimes, but Theo often had food brought up to them in the Office. Isaac was even harder to track down; if he wasn't in Cubbies, he was off playing with some of his friends. The only time Stiles saw them was at night, before the camp's lights were shut off.

Boyd was like a ghost—saying nothing, always working, trying to find ways to get Theo's attention by stitching up the kid who had split their lip, or suggesting a more efficient way of harvesting the garden. The longest time Stiles spent with him was when he took out Stiles' stitches.

Isaac, however, was as excitable as ever, always wanting to show Stiles what he had learnt in school, and the tricks the other Yellows had taught him. After a few days, he had stopped wearing his rubber gloves. Stiles hadn't really noticed until one night when they were getting ready for bed—Stiles had gotten up to turn out the light when Isaac had reached out to stop him. He snapped his fingers and the light overhead blinked out.

“That's amazing,” Stiles said, a bright smile lighting up his face as he pulled the boy into a tight hug.

Stiles hated to admit it, but he was a little jealous; Isaac could control his abilities and was confident enough to walk around without his gloves, but Stiles still couldn't block Theo from his mind, couldn't stop him from finding out about what had happened with Scott.

While he saw Isaac and Boyd every day, Derek was a completely different matter. The security team had him scheduled for the second watch – five p.m. to five a.m. – all the way at the far west end of the late. He was usually too tired to stumble back across the camp to the cabin and often spent most of his days sleeping in the tents they had set up near the entrance to the camp. He'd see him once or twice at breakfast, talking to the others, or visiting Isaac at Cubbies, but it was always from the window of Theo's office.

He missed him to the point that it felt like a real, physical ache, but Derek had his responsibilities, and Stiles needed to learn how to control his abilities. When there were moments of quiet, his mind would often drift to Derek, remembering the moments they had together, how it felt to be held in his arms, the sound of his voice. They had been apart too long that the memories were fading.

Stiles tried to focus on his lessons, to blog out the thoughts of Derek.

Theo laughed, drawing Stiles' attention away from the window and back to him.

Stiles blinked, trying to draw himself back to reality. He turned to look at Theo.

The teen was wearing a white polo shirt that emphasised the natural glow of his skin, and dark jeans with the cuff casually rolled up at his ankles. When he was with others, he always looked proper; shirt buttoned up properly, his clothes lean and ironed—but not with Stiles. When it was just the two of them, he didn't have to put on a show, and neither did Stiles.

When they had started training, Stiles had sat in front of Theo's desk, but it became hard to focus when it felt like you were facing off against the school principal. They tried sitting across from each other in front of the desk, but after a close call when Stiles had nearly passed out, they tried sitting on the floor, but Stiles felt like his back would crumble. Theo had suggested sitting on his narrow bed; Stiles sat at one end, his back resting against the wall, and Theo sat at the other end. With every lesson. they seemed to inch closer together, until one day Stiles snapped out of whatever haze Theo's stormy blue-grey eyes had put him in and realised that their knees were pressed up against one another.

“Sorry,” Stiles said, looked away from the window and turned his attention back over to Theo. “Can we go from the top?”

An amused smirk played across Theo's lips.

“Try again,” he said softly. “This time, try to imagine that those invisible hands you were telling me about are actually knives. Cut through the haze.”

“Easier said than done,” Stiles muttered, shifting slightly on the bed as he straightened his back and tried to focus.

Theo had tried a number of different methods to try to demonstrate how to do it. They'd gone down to the pantry so Stiles could watch him slip into Tracy's mind, for no other reason than to make Stiles laugh. He had tried to show Stiles how easy it was to affect the moods of multiple people at once, settling an argument between two kids without saying a single word.

The truth was, he could do anything and everything. He could block Stiles, break into his mind, push in an image, a feeling, a fear.

Stiles didn't want to disappoint him, not when he was giving him so much of his precious time—the thought made his heart twist with nauseating fear.

He told Stiles to take it slow, that it had taken him years to master all of this, but Stiles was struggling to stay patient. He wanted to learn how to control his abilities. He wanted to repay Theo for his patience ad kindness by mastering his abilities so that he could stand beside him and feel pride, not shame, in what he could do.

He shut his eyes, his brow furrowed as he tried to concentrate. But like every time before, he tried to slip into Theo's mind only to be thrown back.

He jumped, wincing as his mind slammed back into his head.

Theo had so much control over his powers that Stiles didn't even get the feeling of disorientation that came with falling into someone's memories; he couldn't even touch Theo's mind. Every time, it was like he drew a curtain around his mind, and no matter how hard he tried, Stiles couldn't tear through it.

“You can do this,” Theo said, craning his neck to meet Stiles' gaze. “I know you can.”

He wanted him to lean closer, to run his fingers through Stiles' hair and brush it back from his face.

He wasn't sure what dark corner of his mind the thought had crawled out of, because he knew what he really wanted was for _Derek_ to do that.

Theo reached out, setting his hand on Stiles'. He gently brushed the ball of his thumb across the back to Stiles' hands. “One more time.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and shut his eyes.

Theo reached out, setting his hand on Stiles'. He gently brushed the ball of his thumb across the back to Stiles' hands. “One more time.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and shut his eyes. His muscles tensed as he tried to imagine the invisible hands morphing into knives, fingers drawn to sharp points and lethal enough to penetrate the wall between them. He squeezed Theo's hand hard enough that he was sure it would hurt - maybe it would give him the edge he needed; a moment of distraction to let him tear through the curtain. He dove into Theo's mind as hard and fast as he could, but the moment he brushed up against the white wall, he was thrown back. It felt as if he had been slapped across the face, his head throbbing as he came back to his senses.

He slowly blinked his eyes open and let go of Theo's hand.

“Sorry,” Stiles whispered, hating the silence that fell over them.

“No, I'm the one that's sorry.” Theo shook his head. “I'm a terrible teacher.”

“No, you're not,” Stiles said reassuringly. “Trust me, you're not the problem in this equation.”

“Equation?” Theo repeated back to him. “Stiles, this isn't an equation. It's not something you can just follow step-by-step and solve it, otherwise you would have solved it on your own by now; you wouldn’t have come here or accepted my help.”

Stiles bowed his head, his eyes dropping to where his hand rested in Theo's. He watched as he brushed his thumb cross the back of Stiles' hand, drawing soft, soothing circles on his skin.

“You should know,” Stiles started, his voice quiet. “I haven't exactly been honest with you.”

That got his attention.

Theo lifted a brow quizzically.

“The others—they were looking for you because they thought you could help get them home. I wanted to look for you because I was hoping that the rumours of you being and Orange were true and that you'd be willing to teach me.”

Theo's brow knitted together, but he didn't let go of Stiles' hand. “That was before I told you what the league was planning,” he said. “What did you want me to help you with?”

Stiles swallowed hard.

Theo read the look on his face. “Let me guess, something to do with what happened to your parents, right?”

“How I erased myself,” Stiles confirmed. “And how to stop it from happening again.”

Theo closed his eyes for a second and let out a measured breath. When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.

“I wish I could help you with that,” he said, “but the truth is, I can't do what you can. I have no idea how to help you.”

The words were like a punch in the gut.

“I can help you learn how to control your abilities,” Theo said, “and maybe we'll work something out—find something you didn't think of before. If you... tell me about it, and explain how you think it works, then I might be about to figure something out.”

Stiles knew he could think about it – he could remember every detail of that night – the fact was, he didn't want to. He knew himself well enough to know that he can't tell the story without coming out of it feeling as every bit scared and helpless as he did when it had happened.

“Tara,” Theo muttered, nodding slightly as he sat back. “I should have expected that. I'm sorry.”

Stiles looked at him with a confused expression.

“Tara was my older sister,” Theo explained. “She died when I was young, but I still can't talk about it... It still hurts.” The corner of his mouth curled up in a rueful smile. “Maybe you don't have to say anything at all. We could try something else.”

“Like what?” Stiles asked.

“Like you blocking me this time, not the other way around. It might be easier for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you're not vicious enough to put up a good offence—and I mean that as a compliment,” he said. “You're a guarded person. You don't show your cards to anyone. There are times when you're impossible to read, and that's not a bad thing. In fact, it might help you.” He thought for a moment. “Can you tell when someone's trying to break into your mind? That tingling sensation...”

“Yeah, I know what you're talking about, I just don't know how to stop it,” Stiles admitted. “What do I do?”

“You have to push back against it, throw them off whatever track they may be on a. In my experience, things you really want to protect, like memories and dreams, have their own natural defences. You just need to add another wall.”

“Like the white curtain you use to block me whenever I try to get into your head?”

Theo nodded. “That's the way I do it. When I feel the sensation, I push back with the image of a curtain and I don't let up, no matter what. So what I want you to do is bring to mind some kind of secret or memory—something you wouldn't want me or anyone to see—and I want you to drop your own curtain down to protect it.”

Stiles bit into his lip nervously.

Theo noticed his hesitation. He leant forward and took both of Stiles' hands in his, giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Come on,” he said. “What's the worst that could happen? I see an embarrassing moment? I think we're good enough friends that you can trust me when I say I won't tell a soul about the time you tripped in public or wet the bed.”

Stiles let out a quiet laugh. “What about streaking and eating sand at the playground?”

Theo struggled to fight back his laughter as he pretended to think about it for a moment, grinning. “I suppose I could keep that a secret,” he teased.

Stiles paused. “Do you really consider me a friend, or are you just saying that because you want to see me get my four front teeth knocked out when I tried playing soccer?”

Theo shook his head and smiled. “Of course I consider you my friend. Actually...” he began, his voice low. He met Stiles' gaze, his eyes burning with a kind of intensity that made Stiles' stomach flutter. “I consider you a lot more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may have been looking for me, but I was waiting for you,” Theo said quietly. “It's been a long time since I felt like someone understood what I was going through. Being an Orange... you can't compare it to what the others are. They don't understand us or what we can do.”

 _It's only us_ , a small voice whispered at the back of Stiles' mind. _Just the two of us_.

Stiles bowed his head, remembering the argument he had had with Derek, about what he had said to him.

“I know,” Stiles muttered.

“You ready to try?” Theo asked.

“I'm trying,” Stiles said, disheartened. “Please, just don't give up on me.”

His heart dropped slightly as Theo pulled his hands away from his. A shiver ran up his spine at the loss of warmth.

Theo set his hands on Stiles' bare arms, gently caressing his pale skin as he ran his hand up to his shoulders.

Stiles didn't stop him. With Theo, he didn't have to be afraid of what he could do - intentionally or by mistake - because Theo could defend himself. Stiles didn't have to throw up every defence he had to keep his wandering minds contained because Theo was more than capable of keeping Stiles out of his head.

But Derek... He was something precious, something Stiles could break with a single misstep. Derek was someone he couldn't be with, not right then, now when he was the way he was.

Stiles met Theo's gaze.

“I'll never give up on you,” Theo promised.

 

 

Stiles didn't block him on his first try—he didn't block him on the second, or the third, or the tenth. It took him three days of Theo witnessing every cheek-reddening memory before Stiles could throw up some kind of defence.

“Think deeper,” Theo said. “Think about something you wouldn't want anyone to see. Those memories will provoke your strongest defences.”

Stiles tried to think—Theo had seen every embarrassing moment he could think of.

“You can do this,” Theo kept repeating, never frustrated. “I know you can. You're capable of more than you'll admit to yourself.”

Stiles thought for a moment.

“Does it have to be a memory?” he asked.

Theo considered it for a moment. “I suppose not. Maybe you should try something else this time. Something you imagine. Something you want...” Theo's icy grey eyes met his, his brow raised questioningly as he added, “...or someone?”

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat, the memory springing to mind instantly. He fought to keep his face impassive. “Okay. I think I'm ready.”

Theo hesitated for a moment but nodded.

Stiles shut his eyes and let his mind drift into the memory of the dream he had had a few nights after arriving in East River, and every night after that. It had startled him awake, leaving him confused as he listened to the soft rumble of Boyd's snoring and Isaac tossing and turning beside him. He had sat awake for hours, his shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths and his body shaking as he tried to process what he had dreamt—if any of it might actually happen.

It was something he didn't want to share; it was just for him.

The picture came into focus. The trees in the neighbours' front yards were full of vibrant green leaves and the cherry blossoms at the end of the street were in full bloom, the soft pink petals tousled by the breeze. He couldn't help but smile as they drove past them in Roscoe.

Derek was driving, listening to a Led Zeppelin song that played on the radio. Every now and then, Derek would sing a line or tow of it, his deep voice filling Stiles' chest with warmth.

Derek wore the same clothes he had worn when they first met: his old black leather jacket, a grey shirt, and jeans. He reached over and set his hand on Stiles', lacing their fingers together and gently squeezing his hand.

They drove down the familiar streets before pulling up before Stiles' house. White balloons had been tied to the pillars that framed the doorway.

Derek let go of Stiles' hand and shut off the engine. He climbed out and waited for Stiles to join him, taking his hand again and leading him into the house.

They made their way through the front door, past the old dining table and the kitchen and out the door that lead to the backyard.

Everyone was there – his parents, Isaac, Boyd, Scott – all sitting on the blanket Stiles' parents had laid over the soft green grass. His dad was by the barbecue, grilling their lunch while his mother set out plates of food on the picnic blanket.

Isaac was running around the backyard, typing up more balloons before running over to their side and throwing himself into their arms.

Stiles couldn't help but laugh as he hugged him back. Derek gently tousled the boy's sandy blonde curls, smiling at him as Isaac ran back over to Boyd's side, dropping to his knees on the edge of the blanket.

Stiles watched as his mum passed the boy a plate of food, smiling sweetly at him.

They said hello to everyone, Stiles hugged Scott, and introduced Body to his mum.

Then Derek bent down and tenderly kissed him, the feeling indescribable.

Theo's intrusion came like it did all the other times, first with a tingle at the back of his mind, then with a roar.

As much as Stiles liked Theo, he had no place in this dream; there was nothing there that he wanted him to see.

He balled his hands into fists, imagining the hands in his mind shoving Theo back.

Stiles' eyes flew open, his irises lit with a vibrant orange glow.

He felt Theo jerk back, sucking in a hiss of air.

Stiles blinking the glow out of his eyes, looking at Theo's pained expression.

“I'm so sorry,” he gasped as the haze lifted from his mind. “I'm so sorry.”

A smile passed across Theo's face as he looked at Stiles. “I told you you could do it.”

“Are you alright?” Stiles asked hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Theo said, rubbing at his forehead slightly. “I might need to rest for a little while though. It feels like you tackled my brain.”

The quiet was interrupted by the shrill wail of an alarm.

Theo went rigid. He winced, holding his head in his hand as he pushed himself off the bed and hurried to the other side of the room, lifting the lid of his laptop. His fingers darted across the keys as he typed in his password, the glow of the screen lighting up his face.

“What's happening?” Stiles asked, following Theo over to the desk. He came to stand behind Theo just as he clicked open a program.

“One of the camp's perimeter alarms was triggered,” he said, not looking up from his computer. “Don't worry—it might be nothing. We've had animals step a little too close to the wires before.”

It took Stiles a moment to realise what he was looking at. Four windows opened up, one in each corner of the screen, playing a colour video; the four different viewpoints of the camp boundaries.

Theo set his hands either side of the computer, bracing his weight against the desk as he leant forward. He reached across the desk and picked up a wireless black radio, not taking his eyes off the screen for a second.

“Josh, do you read me?”

There was a moment of silence before Josh's gruff voice crackled through the speaker. “Yeah, what's up?”

“The southwest perimeter alarm was triggered. I'm watching the feed now, but I don't see—” His words fell short as something moved on the screen. “I see a man and a woman,” he corrected himself. “Both in camo—unfriendlies, by the look of it.”

Stiles looked at the quarter of the screen with the southwest camera feed, watching as the two camouflaged figures moved through the undergrowth. They looked middle aged and were dressed in hunting attire with their faces painted brown to blend into their surroundings.

“Got it,” Josh replied. “I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks... get them to back off, will you?” Theo said carefully, then turned the volume of the radio all the way down.

 _Southeast perimeter_ , Stiles thought, feeling relief settle into his chest. _Not Derek's area_.

His eyes stayed on the screen as Theo shut the lid of his laptop.

“Do you need to go out there?” Stiles asked. “What's Josh going to do to them?”

“Don't worry about it, Stiles,” Theo said softly. “Everything's under control.”

 

 

One crack might not have been enough to bring down the fortress's defences, but it was enough to splinter into two cracks, then three, and then four. After the initial breakthrough, it became a mission of Stiles' to find different ways to slip into Theo's mind. He never got to stay for very long before he was unceremoniously thrown out, but every mall victory spurred him on to achieve another, and another. He could catch him when his thoughts were focused on something else, trick him into trying to protect one memory when he was really going after another. It surprised Theo, but to some degree, also excited him. Enough, at least, to have him start practising on other people.

It started small, tricking one person into doing something other than what they had originally planned, but quickly gained momentum. Theo tried to teach him how to reach into someone's mind without having to touch them.

Stiles was getting there, slowly, and maybe not entirely surely, but there was something tantalising about the feeling he got when he controlled the swell of power that had once terrified him. Every aspect of his abilities became sharper, easier.

The following Tuesday, Stiles found himself standing in the morning sunshine.

Theo had meetings all day, so they had called off training for the day.

Stiles had been holed up in Theo's office for the past two weeks, and to feel the sweet petrichor sink into his lungs again was a welcome feeling. He pulled his jacket tight around himself, warding off the cold breeze as he made his way down the abandoned walking track that lead to the lake.

He found Boyd sitting on the end of the pier, his shoulders hunched and his eyes focused on the shimmering water.

Boyd didn't so much as look up when Stiles made his way over to his side, and as Stiles sat down, Boyd stood up and stormed away, leaving behind the book he had been reading.

“Hey,” Stiles called after him. “What's your problem?”

The boy didn't respond.

“Boyd,” Stiles called, standing up and following him. “ _Boyd_!”

Boyd didn't reply, he dug his hands into his pockets and kept walking.

“Vernon!”

The boy pivoted on his ankles, turning to glare at Stiles. “You want to know what my problem is? Where do I even start? How about that it's been nearly a whole month and we're still here? How about the fact that you and Derek and Isaac are all off making friends even though we're supposed to be working so that we can find a way home?”

Stiles tried to hide the hurt in his voice. “Where is this coming from?”

Boyd may not have made friends as easily as Derek or Isaac, but Stiles had seen him talking to other kids.

“This place really isn't that bad—”

“Stiles, it's horrible!” he shouted. “We're told when to eat, when to sleep, what to wear, and we're forced to work. How is this any different from a camp?”

Stiles was taken aback.

“You're the one who wanted to come here!” Stiles shouted back, feeling defensive. “I'm sorry it's not living up to your expectations, but it works for us. If you'd just try, you could be happy here. We're safe! Why are you in such a hurry to leave?”

“Just because your parents didn't want you, doesn't mean that the rest of ours don't,” Boyd snapped. “I still have a family, and I want to see them again. Maybe you're not in a hurry to get back, but I am.”

It felt as if Boyd had shot him, as if his words had pierced Stiles' heart. He felt the blood drain away, his veins going cold as he stared at his friend.

“I've been working so hard, I've been _trying_ ,” Boyd said, desperation filling his voice. “You didn't even ask him, did you?”

“Ask him—?” Stiles started. As soon as the words left his mouth, Stiles knew exactly what he was talking about—what promise he'd failed to keep. He felt his anger was away. “I'm sorry,” he apologised. “I'm so sorry. I've been so wrapped up in lessons, I forgot.”

“Well, I didn't,” Boyd said, his voice quiet and void of emotion. He turned and left, leaving Stiles standing alone on the jetty.

 

 

An hour later, Stiles stood under the stream of hot water that gushed from the shower head. The glistening rivulets of water caressed his skin and steam rose around him. He pressed his hands to his face, dragging them down.

The washrooms were divided into two – one for boys, one for girls. The floors were made of smooth concrete, the shower stalls were divided by wooden pranks and rickety doors on rusted hinges.

He stayed there until he heard the bells signal the end of lunch He still hadn't figured out what he was going to do for the rest of the day as he walked out of the washroom—and into the one person he hadn't realised he was desperate to see.

Derek stumbled back a few steps from the impact, his wet hair clinging to his cheeks, longer than Stiles remembered.

“Oh my God,” Stiles said with a breathless laugh, pressing his hand to his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry about that.” Derek smiled, the charming smile making Stiles' heart flutter. He held his hand out to Stiles. “Hey—I don't think we've had the chance to meet. I'm Derek.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I just realised that that's a real mean place to end this chapter, especially when I don't have the next chapter written... yeah, really mean... anyway....


	17. Chapter 17

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at him, but it felt like eternity.

His chest caved in, his heart hammering against his ribs as tears welled in his eyes. His lips hung open, quivering as he fought to find his voice.

 _No, no, no,_ he begged silently. _Please, no. Not again. Not him_.

His stomach twisted nauseatingly, bile rising into his throat. When Derek spoke again. He could barely hear him over the thundering pulse in his ears.

“See, you look just like a friend of mine, Stiles, but I haven’t seen him in _ages_ , so I’m…” His voice trailed off. “Okay, was that joke really that bad?”

Stiles let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, air flooding his lungs. He turned away from Derek, holding his towel to his face to hide the tears that fell down his cheeks.

“Stiles?” He lifted his towel over Stiles’ head, hooking it around his waist and pulling the boy against his side. He craned his neck to look at Stiles, the smile falling from his face as he realised that he was crying. A second later, things fell into place. “Oh God, Stiles. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. It was a bad joke, I didn’t realise—”

Derek dropped his towel, wrapping his arms around Stiles and pulling him close.

Stiles buried his face in Derek’s chest, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed.

Derek cupped the back of his head, whispering softly to him as he gently smoothed down Stiles’ hair.

“Alright, come on,” he said. He bent down, and before he could stop him, he lifted Stiles over his shoulder and carried him back to their cabin.

Once inside their cabin, he carefully laid Stiles down on the futon that he had been sharing with Isaac, reaching across to the bottom bunk to grab a blanket and wrapping it around Stiles shoulders.

“I’m not cold,” Stiles said.

“Then why are you shaking?” Derek asked as he sat down next to Stiles.

Stiles turned and rested his head on Derek’s shoulder, nuzzling his face into the curve of the older boy’s neck.

“I’m pissed at myself,” he admitted. “I told Boyd I’d ask Theo if he could use his laptop to send a message to his parents, but I got distracted and forgot.”

Derek ran his fingers through Stiles’ wet hair, his touch tender and soothing. “I don’t think he’s upset at you. I think he’s upset at me for keeping us here. It’s just reinforcing his fears about not getting home.”

“How do I make it up to him?” Stiles asked quietly.

“Well, for one thing, you can ask about the computer,” Derek said, reaching over with his other hand to lace their fingers together. “Although, I still don’t really understand how you’re in the position to ask to borrow it. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“You haven’t,” Stiles said. “You’re always on watch.”

He let out a soft sigh. “It’s lonely sitting up in a tree without you.”

“I want to hear about what you do all night,” Stiles said quietly, feeling himself relax in Derek’s arms. “Have you tried talking to anyone about freeing the camps yet?”

“I brought it up with some of the guys on my watch, and Lydia. She’s trying to get us in to see Raeken about it. I think… I think it’s going to be great, I really do. I _could_ work.”

“Theo said that the western gate is the one that used to give them the most trouble.” Stiles craned his neck, looking up at Derek. “You are being careful, right?”

“Of course,” Derek said reassuringly. He brushed a few strands of hair back from Stiles’ face. “What about you? What mischief have you been causing?”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile.

“Boyd said something about you getting lessons from Raeken?” Derek said.

“Yeah, he’s teaching me how to keep others from prying int my head.”

“What about tricks to keep you from slipping into others’ heads?” Derek asked. “Is he helping you with that too?”

“He’s trying to,” Stiles said. “He said that if I strengthen my control over my abilities, that would come naturally.”

“Well, you can always practice that with me,” Derek offered.

Stiles sat up and turned to face him, levelling him with a look. “You saw how I reacted to your joke? If something goes wrong… If I…” He let out a measured breath. “I can’t lose you.”

“Then don’t let go,” Derek whispered, gently squeezing Stiles’ hand.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat.

Derek leant forward, pressing a soft kiss to Stiles’ forehead.

Stiles didn’t pull away. He let his eyes fall shut as Derek’s lips brushed against his cheek.

Derek gently cupped Stiles’ cheek with his free hand, resting his forehead against Stiles’.

Stiles tilted his chin up, bringing their lips together in a tender kiss. He felt his breath escape him as he melted into the warmth of the kiss, his slender fingers grabbing handfuls of Derek’s shirt and pulling him closer.

Derek drew back, keeping his forehead against Stiles’ as he whispered, “Don’t let go.”

Stiles’ hands shook as he squeezed Derek’s hand in return. “Never.”

 

 

The bell for dinner rang across the campgrounds as kids cleaned up and began to gather around the bonfire.

“Why don’t you find us somewhere to sit,” Derek said quietly, leaning down to kiss Stiles’ cheek. “I’ll get us some food.”

“Okay,” Stiles replied.

Isaac followed Derek over to the tables full of food, a bright smile lighting up his face and his thick blonde curl bouncing with every step.

Stiles found a quiet place near a tree where an old wooden bench sat in the shadows. He sat down and watched Derek across the way, smiling as the older boy gently tousled Isaac’s hair and wrapped his arm around the boy’s slender shoulders to pull him closer to his side for a hug.

“You really like him, don’t you?”

Stiles jumped, reeling around to see Lydia standing beside him. He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts he hadn’t heard her walk up.

Her long strawberry blonde hair had been pulled back in a braid that encircled her head like a halo, revealing the silver stud earrings that ran up the edge of her ear like a constellation. She wore a black tee shirt, dark jeans, and a thick black trench coat.

She seemed different, her jade eyes misted and unfocused as she looked across the camp at Derek.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered, looking back at Derek and smiling. “I do.”

Her lips moved as she stumbled over words and struggled to string together a sentence. She drew in a shallow breath, her voice quiet as she said, “I know you mean well, but Orange and Blue… not a good combination.”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat, his stomach twisting in knots as he turned to look at her. He felt the shock subside as anger took over; he wanted to scream at her for butting into something that was none of her business, but there was something about her vacant stare that made his words catch in his throat.

He swallowed hard, drawing in a steady breath. His voice was quiet as he said, “Maybe Orange and Blue is not the best. But, you know, sometimes there’s other things you wouldn’t think would be a good combination, end up turning out to be a perfect combination, you know, like two people together—who nobody ever thought would be together ever… turn out to be the perfect combination.”

Lydia met his gaze, her dull jade eyes catching the orange glow of the bon fire.

“Just think about it,” she said, before turning and walking towards the Office.

Derek walked over to his side, carrying two bowls of soup, while Isaac trailed after him, carefully carrying his bowl with two hands and trying hard not to spill a drop.

Stiles held out his hands, taking the boy’s bowl from him so he could climb up onto the seat beside him, before passing it back and taking the bowl Derek offered.

“Have you seen Boyd?” Derek asked.

“Not since this morning,” Stiles replied.

Derek’s face twisted in though as he sat down on the other side of Isaac and began to eat. When they finished, they passed the dishes to the Blues that were using their powers to levitate wash tubs around the bon fire.

Stiles caught a glimpse of a familiar face storming through the crowd and towards their cabin. He rose to his feet and hurried across the campsite, following the boy towards their cabin.

Derek and Isaac followed him as he bounded up the stairs to their cabin and rushing inside.

“Boyd, I need to talk to you,” Stiles said. His pace faltered, his words catching in his throat as he looked up at the teen.

Boyd sat up on the top bunk, a backpack open before him as he shoved clothes and his books inside.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked.

“I’m leaving,” he said sharply.

“You know we can’t,” Derek said softly. “Not yet.”

“Why not?” Boyd shouted, jumping down from his bunk and glaring at Derek. He had lost every semblance of calm he had held before. When Derek didn’t reply, Boyd’s voice grew more tense as he repeated, “ _Why not_? Clearly we aren’t going to get the help we need to track down our parents or Miguel’s. It’d be better for us to just go now, before anyone misses us. No one would realise.”

“And do what?” Derek asked. “Wander around until we just happen to stumble upon them? Hoe that we don’t get our asses caught and thrown back into camp? Boyd, it’s _safe_ here. This is where we’re supposed to be—we can do so much good from here.”

It was as if something snapped inside of Boyd, his face was twisted with anger.

Stiles moved to step between them, to break the tension, but he was too slow.

“I get it—I get it, Der, okay?” Boyd said, a sharp edge to his voice. “You want to be the big hero again. You want everyone to adore you, and believe in you, and follow you.”

Derek tensed. “That’s not—” he began, anger seeping into his voice.

Isaac clung to Derek’s leg, looking at Boyd with a heart-broken expression.

“Well, what about the kids who followed you before?” Boyd snapped. He dug into his pockets and pulled out the folded scrap of paper, the paper crumbling under his grip slightly. “What about Miguel, and Andrew, and Camden, and all of them? They all followed you, too, but it’s easy to forget about them when they’re not around, isn’t it?”

Derek lunged forward, his fist raised.

“Stop!” Stiles gasped, stepping between them. He pressed his hand against Derek’s chest, holding him back.

Derek’s face was red, his eyes livid as his shoulder rose and fell with broken breaths. Isaac grabbed at his jacket, trying to hold the older boy back.

“Can’t you just admit you’re doing this to make yourself feel better, not to actually help anyone else?” Boyd demanded.

“Boyd!” Stiles hissed.

“You think…” Derek struggled to get the words out. “You think they’re not on my mind every goddamn second of every goddamn day? You think I could ever forget something like that?” He slammed the heel of his palm against his forehead again and again until Stiles reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Jesus Christ, Boyd,” Derek uttered under his breath, his voice breaking.

“I just…” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and stormed past them. He paused before the door, turning back to them. “I never believed you, you know,” he said, his voice shaking, “when you talked about us getting out of camp and getting home safely. That’s why I agreed to write my letter I know most of us wouldn’t make it, not with you in charge.”

Stiles stepped in front of Derek again, stopping him before he could do something he’d regret.

He heard Boyd shove the door open and storm outside.

Derek’s hands were balled at his sides, his shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breaths. He tried to take another step after him, but Stiles put his hand against the teen’s chest and held him back.

“Let him go,” Stiles said quietly. “He just needs to blow off some steam. Maybe you should think about doing the same.”

Derek looked as if he was about to say something, but the words died on his lips. Regret and pain filled his eyes as he hung his head. His shoulders slumped and he fell silent for a moment before gently untangling Isaac’s hands from his jacket, stepping around Stiles and walking out of the cabin, muttering something about being back later as he left.

Stiles held his hand out to Isaac.

The boy looked up at him with teary eyes as he took Stiles’ hand.

Stiles grabbed a blanket from the futon and lead the boy out onto the decking outside their cabin. He sat down on the stairs, watching as Isaac settled down next to him and leant against his side. Stiles wrapped his arm around Isaac’s shoulders, draping the two of them in the blanket as they sat and watched the trees.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said softly, gently patting down Isaac’s unruly curls.

 

 

It was nearly dark by the time Derek emerged from the treeline, rubbing his face. The skin on his hands were torn and bloody from punching them against something solid.

His face was lit but the dying light, shadows sinking into his weary expression. All of his anger was gone, all that was left was sadness and regret.

He didn’t say a word as he dragged himself up the stairs and sat down next to them.

Stiles held up the edge of the blanket that rested on Isaac’s shoulder, letting Derek shuffle closer and wrap an arm around Stiles’ back, pulling him and Isaac in close.

He rested his cheek atop Stiles’ head.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, inhaling his comforting smell—wood smoke, grass, and leather.

“He didn’t mean it,” Stiles said quietly.

Derek was still shaking, his voice breaking as he spoke. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

They sat there for a long time—long enough for the sun to disappear behind the trees and sink below the horizon, taking the light with it. They sat there until Isaac lost the fight with sleep and Derek had to carry him into the cabin before returning to sit with Stiles.

Stiles reached out, taking Derek’s hand in his.

Derek’s eyes were focused on the trees.

“Do you think he’s okay?” he asked.

Stiles didn’t know how to answer.

He didn’t have to—as soon as the words left Derek’s mouth, a figure emerged from the shadows of the trees, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

Stiles and Derek rose to their feet, relief flooding their veins as Boyd made his way over to the steps.

Silent tears streamed down his dark face, lit by the light that sat above their cabin door. His dark eyes met Derek’s, his apology written across his face.

Derek stepped down to his side, pulling his friend into his arms as they both cried.

When they finally pulled apart, Derek took the teen’s backpack, gently patting his shoulder as Boyd made his way up the stairs and hugged Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The guilt in his voice made Stiles’ heart break even more.

“Me too,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry.”

The three of them sat down on the stairs.

“It’s over,” Boyd said quietly, staring down at his shaking hands. “It’s all over.”


	18. Chapter 18

It shouldn’t surprise him that Derek threw himself back into watch duty, but it took a lot of coaxing from the others for his mind to refocus on the camps. Stiles sat by his side many times as he and Lydia talked through possible ways of breaking through camp defences, offering suggestions here and there as they discussed how to bring up their idea with Theo.

The thing about enthusiasm—especially Derek’s kind—was that it caught on. There would be nights when Stiles simply sat back, watching as Derek became more and more animated, his hands flying about as he spoke as if he were trying to shape what he was talking about for everyone to see. His words were so full of hope that it had an effect on everyone around him; smiles lit the faces of kids who Stiles hadn’t seen smile before, sparking hope in those who had long given up.

By the end of the first week, interest in the project had spiked so much that they had to move the meetings out of their small cabin, to the fire pit. Now, whenever Derek went anywhere, there was always a group of kids who followed him, trying to get his attention and offer suggestions.

Boyd and Stiles were less enthusiastic about getting back into the swing of things.

Boyd had forgiven him and gone back to work in the Garden, but it was like a cloud hung over him, his dark eyes full of misery and pain that Stiles wished he could take away.

Stiles went back to lessons with Theo—or at least, tried to.

“Where’s your head at today?” Theo asked.

Stiles blinked as he pulled himself back from his thoughts, turning away from where his eyes had focused on the pool of sunlight on the old wooden floorboards and looked at Theo. He opened his mouth to say something, but Theo cut him off.

“ _Show_ me what you’re thinking about,” Theo said. “I don’t want to hear about it, I want to see it.”

Stiles met his gaze, taken aback slightly by the look of annoyance on Theo’s face.

He let out a steady breath and closed his eyes, reaching for Theo’s hand again. He brought to mind the memory of Boyd and Derek’s fight, of the looks of rage on their faces, the blood on Derek’s hands when he came back, and Boyd’s tear-stained face.

Over the past few weeks, fewer and fewer of their conversations had involved words. When they wanted to get a point across, they shared it in their own way. But not today; Theo’s mind might as well have been encased in concrete.

“Sorry,” Stiles muttered. The overwhelming emotions just left him tired, his heart to heavy and his mind distracted.

“I do have other things I could be doing,” Theo said, an edge to his voice. “I have rounds to make and people to talk to, but I’m trying to help you. I’m here with you.”

Stiles felt his stomach flip. He straightened against the bed’s headboard.

Before he could apologise, Theo slid off the bed and moved across the room to his desk.

“Theo,” Stiles said slowly, following him over to the desk. “I’m really sorry.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time; he just stared at the screen of his laptop, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he typed. The pale glow of the screen lit the emotions in his eyes and Stiles watched as annoyance took a sharp turn into anger.

He looked up at Stiles.

“I was wrong about you,” he said, the words tearing through Stiles. “You’re just like the rest of them. Boyd is off in his own world, Hale is filling everyone’s heads with dreams—as if he didn’t learn from his last failure—and your Yellow is so terrified of the world that he won’t speak. You’re no different.”

It felt as if Theo had slammed in him the gut, the air knocked from his lungs and leaving him breathless.

Stiles bristled. The way he had said it – _your Yellow_ – left him shocked, magma-hot anger seeping into his veins.

He balled his hands by his sides, his nails digging into the palms of his hands. He bit his tongue, fighting to not say something that would ruin their friendship. He fought not to scream at him about how he had been spending the last weeks with _him_ and not with his friends, when _they_ needed him.

He needed to leave; needed to get out of there before he snapped and said something he couldn’t take back.

He wasn’t afraid of his abilities, he wasn’t afraid of the world. He had learnt how to control his powers, but staring at Theo then, he couldn’t get the words out; couldn’t defend himself.

He turned sharply and stalked towards the door, throwing it open. As he sprinted down the stairs, Theo’s voice trailed after him, “That’s right, Stiles, run away again. See how far you get this time!”

He didn’t look back. He didn’t stop.

Part of him knew this was him running away from the once chance he had to earn how to control his power, but his mind was disconnected from his body—his thoughts carried away like leaves in a river—and he wasn’t sure which it was that guided him outside and away from him; his mind or his body. But what he did know was that he didn’t want Theo to see the guilt or sadness that bled through his shattered expression.

His feet carried him into the woods, town the trail and away from the camp.

He knew he couldn’t hide anything from Theo, but this was the first time he wanted to.

 

 

It took a few days for Stiles to realise just how much Boyd’s words had changed his world. Once he had pointed out East River’s similarities to camp life, he couldn’t go back. Where he had seen kids in jeans and black t-shirts, he now saw uniforms. Where he had seen kids waiting in line for their food, he now saw the Mess Hall. When he passed the kids working the Garden, he felt his hands ache at the memory of blisters and callouses from days working in the freezing cold, weeding the Gardens at Thurmond. When the lights went out in the cabins at nine p.m. sharp, a security team would stroll past their window, but Stiles felt like he was back in Cabin 27, staring up at the underside of Scott’s bunk.

He began to wonder if the supposedly dead cameras in the office and the facilities around camp were actually on.

He tried to see Theo a few times to apologise, but – every time – Theo sent him away with a stern ‘I don’t have time for you today’.

Stiles got the feeling he was being punished, but as the days went on, it became blatantly clear that Stiles needed Theo in his life more than Theo needed him—which only made Stiles’ feelings of guilt all the more worse.

It was a Wednesday, only an hour before Derek and the others met up to discuss the camp liberation strategy, when Theo was finally ready to see him.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” Stiles told Derek, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Although I might be a little late to the meeting.”

“It’s okay,” Derek said softly, pulling Stiles forward slightly so that he could kiss his cheek. A sweet smile played across his lips as he squeezed Stiles’ hand back. “Go.”

Stiles waved goodbye to Isaac and Boyd before making his way over to Theo’s office. He made his way up the narrow staircase and knocked at the door, gently nudging it open.

“Hey, come in—just watch your step,” Theo said, not looking up from the stacks of paper scattered over his desk. “Sorry about the mess.”

‘Mess’ was an understatement. His office looked as if a pack of wolves had torn through it; piles of paper and folders were stacked around the room, loose pieces of paper scattered across the floor—print outs, tables, torn maps, pages of notes, boxes, and Theo in the middle of all the mess.

His long hair had fallen into his face. His shirt – the same shirt Stiles had seen him in the day before – was untucked and wrinkled, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, exposing his firm tan forearms.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked as he shut the door behind himself. “What’s going on?”

“We’re trying to coordinate a hit,” he explained.

“Medical supplies?”

“Uh… yeah.” He slumped down in his desk chair, his eyes focused on a piece of paper in front of himself, but was back on his feet a second later when his computer chimed. “Hold on just a sec.”

Stiles glanced down at one of the stacks of paper by his foot, gently nudging aside a folder with his toe to read the paper underneath it. It was full of numbers that were divided into columns lettered G, B, Y, and R, and an untitled column that had larger numbers in it—numbers in the millions.

“Camp numbers,” Theo said, as if reading his thoughts. He didn’t look up from his computer, his fingers darting across the keyboard. “And under those are reports of the usual nightly activity at a nearby truck stop and League intelligence about PSFs in that area. It seems that Leda Corporation is now employing the government to protect their shipments.”

“PSFs?” Stiles asked. “Why?”

Theo shrugged. “They’re the largest military force the government has right now, and, thanks to dear old Dad, the most organised.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Stiles’ eyes drifted towards the laptop, his heartbeat quickening at the thought of Boyd. “Can I ask a favour?”

“Only if you let me apologise first.”

“Can we just forget it ever happened?” Stiles asked as he picked his way through the papers and sat down on one of the chairs in front of the desk, staring down at his hands.

“No, not this time,” he said. He craned his neck, trying to catch Stiles’ gaze. “Hey, will you look at me?”

Stiles glanced up, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the expression on Theo’s face—the pain and guilt in his stormy blue-grey eyes.

 _He does care_ , a voice in his head whispered. _He cares about you_.

“I’m sorry for losing my temper,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean the things I said about you or your friends, especially Isaac. And I definitely didn’t mean to imply that you haven’t been trying.”

“Then why did you say that?”

Theo glanced down and shook his head. “Because I’m an idiot.”

“That’s not an answer,” Stiles said, shocked at how firm his voice was.

“Stiles, isn’t it obvious?” he said. “I like you. I’ve only known you for—what, a month? And you’re probably the only real friend I’ve had since I turned ten and figured out what I was. I’m an idiot for getting so upset that you were focused on someone else when I wanted you to be focused on me.”

Stiles was stunned.

“I thought that keeping you away from your friends for a while would help you feel safe to explore your powers without the risk of hurting people you care about, I didn’t stop to think that being away from them could cause rifts and make you worry about them more. And of course you’re going worry about them, you care about them.”

 _He more than cares about you_.

Stiles forced himself to look away, bowing his head. He cleared his throat and said, “I _guess_ I could forgive you…”

“But only if I do that favour for you?” Theo finished. Stiles could hear the smile in his voice. “Sure. What is it?”

“I know you don’t allow it, but I was hoping you’d make an exception in this case,” Stiles said, looking up at Theo again. “My friend… he needs to use your computer to contact his parents.”

The smile fell from Theo’s face. “Your friend Derek?”

“No, Boyd.”

“The one who’s been skipping Garden duty?”

 _So that girl had ratted on him after all_.

Theo was silent as he shut the lid to his laptop. “I’m sorry, Stiles, but the numbers in camp are low and there’s too much activity nearby; I can’t let anyone leave right now.”

“Oh, no, he doesn’t want to leave,” Stiles said, realising a second later that that was a lie. “He just wants to send a message to his parents to let them know he’s okay and to make sure they’re alright. It’s a coded message that only he and his parents understand—it’s completely safe.”

“No,” Theo said, moving around the end of the desk and sitting on the edge of the desk in front of Stiles. “He wants to make arrangements to leave and take you with him. Don’t try to cover for him, Stiles. It’s the same for everyone. I don’t doubt for a second that he’s desperate enough to tell his parents the location of this camp.”

“He would never,” Stiles objected.

“You were there when we had intruders a few weeks ago. You saw how easy it could be for someone to slip past out defences. What if they hadn’t triggered the alarm? We could have been in serious trouble.” Theo’s face was dark, worried. “If Boyd wants to contact his parents, tell him to fill out a request with instructions on how to do so, just like everyone else. I have to base my decision on what might threaten the camp’s security—no matter how much I want to help you help your friend.”

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders falling.

It was no use—Boyd would rather not contact his parents than tell a stranger how to access his only means of safely contacting them.

“ _Although_ ,” Theo started slowly. “There is something that could persuade me.”

He pushed himself off the desk and stood before Stiles.

“Fifteen minutes, Stiles. You teach _me_.”

Stiles blinked in surprise, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What could I possibly know that you don’t?”

“Do you think you could walk me through how you erase someone’s memory? I know it’s not something you’re proud of, and I know it’s caused you a lot of pain in the past, but it seems like a useful trick, and I’d be interested to learn it.”

Stiles was torn—he wanted to outright refuse him, but Theo had done so much to help him, and it could help Boyd get the message to his parents.

“I think understanding how you do it will also help me figure out how to prevent you from accidentally doing it again.”

Stiles bit into his lip but nodded.

“If you’d let me,” he continued, “I’d like to walk through your memories and see if I can find any clues. I just want to confirm a suspicion I have.”

He didn’t know why he was hesitating; Theo had been in his head before, seen things that he had never spoken about to anyone. But Stiles had been able to keep him from seeing things that really mattered, the dreams he wanted to protect and memories he wanted to forget.

He thought back to what Derek had said when he had told Stiles about his little sister: _Those memories are mine_.

But if he wanted a future with his family—with Derek—then he had to relinquish his control; he had to let Theo in if it meant he could avoid he same thing happening in the future.

 _You can trust him_ , the voice in the back of his head whispered. _He’s your friend. He’d never overstep._

Stiles nodded again. “Okay. But only those memories, and afterwards, Boyd gets to use your computer.”

“Deal.”

Theo led the way over to the other half of the office, to the bed that sat in the corner of the room.

Stiles followed, sitting down next to him on the bed.

He felt his chest tighten, his breath catching in his throat. They’d sat this close before, but this somehow felt different.

“Wait,” Stiles said, pulling back slightly. “I told Derek and the others I’d meet up with them. Can we maybe do this later? Or even tomorrow?”

“It’ll only take a second,” Theo promised, his voice soothing and low. He met Stiles’ gaze, his grey eyes soft as he reached out and gently took Stiles’ hands in his own. “Just close your eyes and think back to the morning you woke up on your tenth birthday.”

Stiles swallowed hard as he did what he asked, letting his eyelids drift shut and his mind wander into the depths of his memories.

The room around him was lit by the slivery glow of the moonlight that seeped in through his open curtains, casting an eerily pale glow across his bedroom. The green light of his bed-side clock broke through the darkness.

He watched as the details came to life: the pale blue walls decorated with paintings, the photos of his parents that sat on his bedside table, the light brown blanket that his grandma had knitted that lay across the bottom of his bed, the telescope set up next to his window that his dad had gotten him for his ninth birthday, the large bookshelves full of books and figurines—the shelves sagging in the middle under the weight.

“Good,” he heard Theo whisper, his voice distant yet so close. “Keep thinking…”

It was like watching a movie, he saw his younger self kick his legs out from under the blankets, his face streaked with tears that glistened in the silvery light. He watched as his younger self stumbled to his feet and crept into the hallway; he followed.

The house was silent as Stiles made his way along the hallway, creeping towards his parents’ bedroom. The door had been left ajar and he could hear the quiet rumble of his father’s snoring from inside the room.

His younger self pushed open the door and crept inside, stumbling through the darkness as he made his way to the side of his parents’ bed. He climbed up onto the bed, laying down next to his mother the way he would when he was younger and running from his nightmares.

He lay there, watching as the silvery light lit his mother’s face.

She looked so young when she was sleeping, the lines that were worn into her face had faded and her eyes fluttered slightly as she dreamt. Her cheeks were damp with tears and Stiles knew that she had cried herself to sleep.

The boy shivered as the cold winter air rolled up the back of his Batman pyjama shirt. He shuffled closer to his mum, reaching out to lay his hand atop of hers.

“It’s okay, mum,” he whispered softly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

A bolt of static shocked him. Stiles flinched, remembering the feeling.

The boy gasped and jerked his hand back, the tips of his fingers tingling. His heart was racing, numb tears rolling down his face as he cradled his arm to his chest. He scurried off the bed and ran back to his room, pulling the door shut and diving back under his blankets.

Stiles’ heart sank into his gut as he remembered how the rest of that day played out. He felt a tear roll down his cheek.

Theo emerged in the silvery light, his face slowly taking focus as he took a step forward. He reached out, cupping Stiles’ cheek. He brushed the ball of his thumb across Stiles’ skin, wiping away the tear that caressed Stiles’ pale skin.

Stiles felt his breath catch in his throat, his mind falling into a cloudy haze.

Theo leant forward, his lips so close, smiling against Stiles lips.

“It’s alright, Stiles,” Theo whispered, his voice sending shivers down his spine and a wave of desire through his veins. “Don’t fight it.”

His hand slid down to Stiles’ chest. All it took was the gentlest shove and Stiles fell backwards.

His memories dissolved to smoke around him as he found himself lying on Theo’s bed. His body went limp, his head spinning as his pulse hammered in his ears.

He opened his eyes, looking up at Theo.

Theo’s lips brushed against his, his hand sliding beneath the hem of Stiles’ shirt and his fingers caressing the skin of his stomach.

 _You want this_ , the voice in the back of his head whispered. _You want this_.

Stiles felt ice run through his veins. That voice wasn’t his.

He looked up at Theo, watching as his mind flashed to another image; his blue-grey eyes were pale aventurine, his dirty blonde hair was black.

His mind felt slow and hazy as he strained to grasp that though.

 _Derek_.

He wanted Derek, but here was Theo—Theo who had helped him, who was his friend, who was kind and handsome, and made him lose his train of thought. Theo who understood him better than anyone ever could.

Who was also an Orange.

 _No_. Stiles’ eyes flew open wide, clarity returning to his mind. He tried to move—tried to get away—but it felt as if his veins had been flooded with concrete. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even shut his eyes.

Theo’s hand slid up to Stiles’ throat, his fingers tightening around his skin as Stiles tried to pull back.

 _Stop_ , he tried to say, but the words never made it to his lips.

Theo leant forward and crushed their mouths together.

A blinding pain exploded behind his eye. Tears pricked his eyes as he pushed back.

Theo gasped, wincing as he jerked back, holding his head in his hands.

Stiles felt feeling return to his body. He balled his fist and swung at Theo, his knuckles slamming into the boy’s jaw and knocking him off balance.

His limbs were lethargic as he forced himself to move, crawling out from under Theo and stumbling to his feet. His legs pedalled beneath him as he staggered towards the door, an unseen weight pulling at his heels.

“Where are you going, Stiles?” Theo asked, his voice disturbingly calm.

“I need to… I need to find the others,” Stiles said between shaky breaths.

Theo’s eyes darkened. “Find _Derek Hale_ , you mean.”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles said firmly, taking a few steps towards the door. “I was supposed to meet him. He’s going to be worried if I don’t—”

Theo shook his head. “Why do you even know about him, Stiles? You’ve known him for, what, a month? A month and a half? Why are you wasting your time with him? He’s a _Blue_ , and no only that, but he—he had a record, even before camp. Even before he killed all of those kids—a hundred and forty-eight. Over half of their camp! So you can cut all of your bullshit and hero worship, because he doesn’t deserve it. You’re too valuable to be screwing around with him.”

“What is your problem?” Stiles yelled. “So what if he’s a Blue? Aren’t you the one that keeps going on about how we’re all equal, how we should respect each other and stand united?”

An arrogant smile curled the corner of his lips upwards.

“You need to accept the fact that you’re Orange and that you’re always going to be alone because of it.” He rose to his feet and sauntered towards Stiles.

Stiles reached behind himself, his hand shaking as he grabbed the doorhandle and pulled the door open. But Theo was there in an instant, slamming the door shut.

“I saw what you want,” Theo whispered. “And it’s not your parents. It’s not even your friends. What you want is to be with him, like you were in the cabin the other day, or in the car that night you spent in the woods.”

Stiles felt his heart lurched, his chest tightening as his pulse hammered in his ears.

“‘I don’t want to lose you’, that’s what you said.” Theo leant in closer, his cold flare fixed on Stiles. “Is he really that important?”

Rage boiled up from his stomach, searing his veins. “How _dare_ you? You said you wouldn’t—you said—”

Theo laughed, the sound hollow and dark. “God, you’re naïve. I guess this explains how that woman from the League was able to trick you into thinking you were something less than a monster.”

“You said you would help me,” Stiles whispered.

Theo rolled his eyes. “Alright, are you ready for your final lesson? Mieczyslaw Germin Stilinski, you are alone. You will always be alone. If you weren’t so stupid, you would have figured that out by now, but since it’s beyond you, let me spell it out for you: _you will never be able to control your abilities_. You will never be able to avoid being pulled into someone’s head, because there’s part of you that doesn’t want to know how to control them. No, not when it could mean having to embrace them. You’re too immature and weak-hearted to use them the way they’re meant to be used. You’re scared of what that would make you.”

Stiles felt bile rise into his throat. He balled his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

“Stiles, don’t you get it? You hate what you are, but you were given these abilities for a reason. We both were. It’s out _right_ to use them—we have to use them to stay ahead, to keep the others in their place.”

He reached up, his fingers tugging at the collar of Stiles’ shirt.

“Stop it,” Stiles said firmly, his voice steady and his eyes livid.

Theo leant in close, his lips inches away from Stiles’ as he slipped an imagine into his mind—the two of them, laying on the bed, his hands caressing Stiles’ side. His stomach knotted as he watched his eyes open in terror and Theo’s lips pressed against his.

“I’m so glad we found each other,” Theo said, voice low and calm. “We can help each other. I thought I knew everything, but you…”

Stiles’ elbow flew up and slammed into Theo’s jaw.

Theo stumbled backwards with a howl of pain, his hands cupping his face.

Stiles wrenched the door open and ran.

“Stiles!” Theo called after him. “Wait, I didn’t mean—”

A face appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Tracy. Her lips parted in surprise, her dark eyes darting from Stiles as he ran past her to Theo at the top of the stairs.

“Just an argument,” he heard Theo say, his voice quiet and calming. “It’s fine, just let him go.”

Stiles’ feet hit the ground, his legs aching as he ran towards the fire pit.

A lot of kids were gathered around food tables and the wooden logs.

He turned in circles, looking for a familiar face. He wanted to find Derek, explain why he hadn’t been at the meeting, tell him what had happened, but he couldn’t—he needed to get away; he needed to be alone.

His feet pedalled beneath him as he turned to run towards the trees, but he ran right into Corey.

“Hey, there you are,” he said, his soft voice full of relief as he held his hands out to steady Stiles. “We got worried when you didn’t show up to the meeting.” His dark umber eyes filled with worry as he met Stiles’ gaze, his brows furrowing slightly in confusion. “Stiles? You okay?”

Stiles swallowed against the bile that burnt his throat. He turned and ran, bolting past the cabins and down the nearest path and tearing into the darkness beyond the trees.

He sprinted through the dense forest, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He sprung over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs, his nimble legs and spring-locked ankles projecting him over the large logs. The overgrown and unforgiving undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet.

The sounds drained away, disappearing behind him as he ran further and further into the dense forest.

He slowed, running on the spot as he turned about to check whether he was being followed or under threat. He began to settle, setting his feet down on the ground and slumping back against the thick trunk of a nearby tree as he tried to catch his breath.

He heaved in heavy breaths, clawing at his shirt and trying to pull it away from his skin. It smelled like his room—like evergreens, spice, and old, decaying things. His sweat had plastered it to his body, the feeling making him want to scream. He pulled it over his head and threw it as hard and as far as he could, but he still couldn’t shake the smell. It was everywhere, on his skin, his jeans, everything.

 _Calm down_ , he told himself, trying to steady his broken breaths.

He collapsed to his knees, curling up and hunching over himself. A cold shiver ran over him as he tried to make himself as small as possible, tried to disappear into the shadows like he used to.

His mind was a mess of emotions. Anger, for being lied to, for having fallen for it. Disgust, for the way he had touched him and how his smell had invaded he pores of his skin. But thee sound something else; an ache inside of him that grew and twisted, turning him to stone.

“Stiles?”

Stiles bolted upright, his eyes wide as he looked up at Derek.

He stood a few meters away, the tousled mess of his hair as dark as the night sky and his pale eyes full of concerns.

He could never hide from him; he had never been able to.

“Corey came and got me,” he said, taking a careful step towards him. His hands were out in front of him as if trying to coax a wild animal into letting him approach. “What are you doing out here? What’s going on?”

“Please just go,” Stiles begged. “I need to be alone.”

Derek took another step towards him.

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles shouted. “ _Go away!_ ”

“Not this time. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on,” Derek said firmly. He took another step closer, getting a better look at Stiles. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Where were you this morning? Did something happen? Boyd told me you’ve been gone all day, and now you’re out here like… _this_ …” He gestured towards Stiles sweat-soaked, half naked body. “Did he do something to you?”

Stiles looked away. “Nothing I didn’t ask for.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Derek said calmly. “Not one damn second. If you want to get rid of me, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“I don’t want you here.”

Derek shook his head. “Doesn’t mean I’m leaving you here alone. You can take all the time you want, as long as you need, but you and me? We’re having this out tonight. Right here.” He pulled his black sweater over his head and threw it towards Stiles. “Put it on, or you’ll catch a cold.”

Stiles caught it with one hand, his hands shaking as he pressed it to his chest, feeling the lingering warmth of Derek’s body.

“Is it me?” Derek asked. “Is it that you can’t talk to me about it? Do you want me to get Boyd?”

Stiles couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“Stiles, you’re scaring the hell out of me.”

“Good.” He balled up the sweater and threw it into the darkness as hard as he could.

“ _Good_?” Derek repeated. “What’s good about it?”

Stiles didn’t realise the reality of Theo’s words, not until right then when he looked up and met Derek’s gaze. The pulsing blood in his ears turned into a deafening roar. He squeezed his eyes shut, digging the heels of his palms into his forehead.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he cried. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Because you would never leave me.”

His feet shuffled through the undergrowth as he took a few steps closer.

He felt his skin prickle with a familiar warmth, a presence he recognised. He gritted his feet, feeling a spike of anger rise, mad at him for coming so close when he knew he couldn’t handle it, when he knew he could hurt him.

His gentle hands pulled Stiles’ away from his face, but it was too much—too tender—for Stiles to deal with.

Stiles shoved him back, throwing his full weight into it.

Derek stumbled backwards. “Stiles—”

Stiles pushed him again, and again, harder each time. Tears welled in his eyes, shuddering sobs making his way out of his chest. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t find the words, and he knew there was nothing he could say that would convince Derek to leave him alone. He shoved at him again. It was the only way he could tell him what he desperately wanted to say.

Bursts of glossy memories filled his mind; Derek’s dreams, his memories.

It wasn’t until he knocked Derek back into a tree that he realised he was crying, his tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked up at Derek, at the small cut under his left eye and the dark bruise forming around it, at the pale white scar at the corner of his lip.

Up close, I saw a new cut under his left eye and the bruise forming around it.

Derek’s lips parted. His hands were no longer out in front of him, but were hovering over Stiles’ hips.

“Stiles…”

Stiles shoved him back against the tree and closed what little distance was left between them, crushing their mouths together in a passionate kiss. His fingertips brushed against Derek’s jaw before trailing back to the nape of his neck. He laced his fingers through the soft tufts of Derek’s hair, his other hand grabbing at the back of his shirt.

Derek returned the kiss, tilting his head and deepening the kiss. Derek’s hands settled on his hips, pulling him closer and letting Stiles lose himself in the older boy’s warmth. He seemed to weaken at his touch, the kiss growing more gentle and more tender as he lifted his hand to Stiles’ cheek and cupped the soft skin.

Stiles’ lungs burnt, desperate for air. The hand at the base of Derek’s neck began to tremble. He felt something coil inside of him, his heartbeat thundering in his chest.

Breathing him in wasn’t enough, he wanted to inhale him; the leather, the smoke, the sweetness.

His gently hand caressed Stiles’ side, counting his bare ribs and drawing him in closer.

Stiles was off-balance, the world swaying dangerously around him as Derek’s lips travelled to his cheek, his jaw, and his neck, his lips brushing over Stiles’ pale skin.

He didn’t feel it happen—the slip. Even if he had, he was so wrapped up in him that he wouldn’t have been able to pull back.

His feather-light touch sent a shiver up Stiles’ spine, stroking his skin with a kind of reverence, but the moment his lips found Stiles’ again, the image broke through the haze in his mind; overwhelming him.

He saw Theo’s face as he leant in to do exactly what Derek was doing now, the memory flooding his mind and twisting its way through him.

But something was wrong. He wasn’t seeing his memory—not in his mind at least.

He felt Derek grow still, pulling back from Stiles. And he knew, he knew by the look on Derek’s face, that he’d seen it.

 _How_? He thought, panic flooding his veins. It wasn’t possible. He _saw_ memories; he didn’t _show_ them. He didn’t know how.

Stiles pulled away, the orange glow fading from his eyes as he staggered backwards.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered, his lips trembling breathlessly. “I didn’t want—he—”

Derek caught one of his wrists and pulled him back to him, his hands cupping Stiles’ cheeks. He leant forward, resting his forehead against Stiles’.

Stiles bowed his head and tried to squirm out of Derek’s hold, feeling ashamed and afraid of what Derek would think of him, but Derek held him there.

After a moment, Derek lifted his head and gently brushed the tousled strands of Stiles’ hair back from his face. When he spoke, his voice was measured—a forced calm hiding a raging storm. “What did he do?”

“Nothing—”

“Don’t lie,” he begged. “Please don’t lie to him. I felt it… my whole body… It was like being turned to stone. You were scared—I _felt_ how scared you were!”

Stiles still couldn’t meet his gaze.

Derek’s fingers brushed the stands of hair back from his face again, weaving his fingers through his hair. He gently cupped Stiles’ face, brushing away his tears with the ball of his thumb. He gently coaxed Stiles to look up, his pale aventurine eyes full of worry as he met Stiles’ gaze.

“He…” Stiles started, swallowing hard. “He asked to see a memory, and I let him, but he used it just to get into my mind. When I tried to move, I couldn’t get out, I couldn’t move. I don’t know what he did, but it hurt—it hurt so much.”

Derek pulled him close, pressing his lips to Stiles’ forehead. The muscles in his arms strained, his hands shaking as he held Stiles close.

Finally, he pulled back, resting his forehead against Stiles’.

“Go to the cabin,” he said quietly. “Start packing.”

“Der—”

“I’m going to find Boyd and Isaac,” he said. “We’re getting the hell out of here. Tonight.”

He pressed another kiss to Stiles’ forehead, stepping around him before taking off down the path.

“Derek,” Stiles called after him, but he was already gone.

He turned towards where he had thrown Derek’s sweater, finding it laying among the dirt and soft moss. He pulled it on, pulling the collar up to his face and hugging himself as he fought off the icy chill that crept in with the darkness. He followed the path back through the woods and in the direction of the cabins and the fire pit.

He sprinted up the stairs to their cabin, throwing the door open.

Boyd was already there, sitting with Isaac on the futon. They looked up at Stiles with worried expressions as he burst through the door.

“What the hell happened to you?” Boyd asked.

“Get your things. We’re leaving,” Stiles said bluntly, grabbing the backpacks that sat atop the dresser and tossing them onto the foot of the bed.

Boyd leapt to his feet. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Stiles passed him his backpack, pulling open the zip on Isaac’s bright pink bag. He began to explain everything as he packed, pulling the piles of clothes from the dresser and shoving them into the bags.

As he finished telling Boyd everything, Derek came bursting in through the door. His eyes darted around the room, looking from Stiles to Boyd to Isaac, and let out a shaky sigh of relief.

“I got worried when I couldn’t find you,” he told Boyd. “Are you ready?”

Stiles pulled on a baggy t-shirt and a black hooded sweatshirt. Derek grabbed his old leather jacket and passed it to Stiles. Stiles smiled weakly as he pulled it on.

Boyd knelt before Isaac, helping him fasten the Velcro straps of his shoes.

Derek grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder before holding Isaac’s bag up and helping the younger boy slide his arms into the straps.

Stiles and Boyd grabbed their bags, Stiles taking Isaac’s hand as they left the cabin, turning off the lights behind them.

Derek led the way into the woods and down a narrow dirt track was worn through the undergrowth, the thick evergreens arching over them. The blankets of fallen brown leaves rustled beneath their feet as they made their way along the path that encircled the camp and towards the eastern end of the camp.

The usual bright colours of the green, orange, and red leaves were muted by the fading light, now brown and grey.

The smell of smoke from the fire pit followed them down the main trail longer than the light of the crackling fire or the voices did.

The trail led up to a large metal shed, the corrugated iron walls stained with rust and withered by the elements. A large blue tarp had been strung up over the open doorway.

Isaac stayed close to Stiles’ side, his wide blue eyes darting about the shadows.

Stiles gave the boy’s hand a reassuring squeeze, watching as Derek pulled aside the tarp and led the way inside.

There was a loud clunk as light blinded them. Derek tensed, one arm flying up to shield his eyes from the light, the other reaching back wards instinctively to shield the others.

Stiles pilled Isaac close, burying the boy’s face in his side as he turned away from the light.

“Told you he’d try to get out this way,” he heard Josh say.

Stiles blinked, watching as silhouettes emerged from the glare of the spotlight. He made out Josh’s face, his short dark hair an entangled mess of curls and a black jacket hanging on his shoulders.

“Yes,” a familiar voice said. “Good call.”

A shudder crawled up Stiles’ spine. He felt Derek tense, his hand reaching back to find Stiles’.

Theo stepped forward into the light. He wore black bomber jacket over a grey shirt, his hands buried in his pockets. His composure was unwavering, but there was a fire in his eyes.

Others appeared around them, figures dressed in black uniforms and carrying guns.

“Shit,” Boyd swore under his breath.

Stiles turned his eyes away from Theo, noticing what Boyd had: the figures that surrounded them weren’t boys; they were men.

The white light of the spotlight lit one of the soldier’s sleeves.

Stiles’ heart sank as he noticed the red Ψ symbol embroidered in their jacket sleeve.

PSFs.

Stiles turned back to Theo, his eyes wide with shock. His heart lurched as a man stepped forward on Theo’s other side. He didn’t have to see the man’s face; he knew who it was by the rancid smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne that burnt his nostrils.

Stiles swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, holding Isaac closer to his side.

General Gerard Argent.

Theo narrowed his cold glare on Derek. “Sorry, Hale,” he said without a hint of remorse, “but no one takes what’s mine.”


	19. Chapter 19

No one moved.

Stiles gently ushered Isaac behind himself, using his body to shield the boy as his hand tightened on the shoulder of Isaac’s jacket and the other held on to Derek’s hand.

The soldiers blocked their way, standing where large crates, rust-stained oil drums, and tarp-covered boxes barricaded the shed’s exit. They were dressed in heavy tactical gear and Kevlar vests, black ski masks pulled down over their faces.

“It seems that Derek Hale is staging another breakout,” Theo said, a coy smile curling up the corner of his lips. “Or, at least, trying to. Looks like it’ll be just as successful as the last one.”

“Shut up,” Stiles shouted. He caught Derek’s arm before he could charge at Theo.

“I think we need to have a talk,” Theo said, his voice calm and level as he turned his eyes on Stiles. It seems like something dangerous is about to happen.”

“We’re heading out,” Derek said with finality, his anger barely contained. “And we don’t want any trouble.”

“You can’t just go,” Josh growled, taking a step forward.

Theo held up his hand, silencing Josh.

“Stiles,” Theo said, his voice like honey. “Let’s talk about this.”

The tightly wound coil of anger began to unravel, a cool wave of relief washing over him as his mind grew hazy, numb. His hand slid from Derek’s. His other hand weakened as he let go of Isaac’s shoulder. He took a step towards Theo, his legs moved on their own.

Derek and Boyd didn’t let him get any further: Derek held an arm out to block Stiles’ path and Boyd grabbed his backpack. Derek stepped in front of Stiles, blocking Theo.

Stiles let out a sharp gasp as reality crashed over him. Clarity returned to his mind as Theo’s grasp over him disappeared.

“ _Stop it_!” Derek yelled. “Whatever you’re doing to him, _stop it_!”

“I’m not doing anything,” Theo said, his voice smooth and smug. “I can’t help that you’re jealous of the relationship that he and I have.”

Theo took a step forward, his eyes narrowing on Derek.

Derek flinched, his face screwed up. He was fighting, but it was no use. His shoulders dropped, the tension in his body draining away as he opened his eyes. His usually bright, clear aventurine eyes were distant and dreary, drained of any thoughts. His face was expressionless.

“You’re happy here, aren’t you?” Theo said softly. “There’s no reason why you can’t go back to feeling that way.”

“Oh, shut up,” Boyd said, exasperated. He pushed past Stiles, putting himself between Derek and Theo.

In one fluid motion, the soldiers all raised their guns, barrels trained on Boyd, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Theo turned his head slightly, the spotlight illuminating his face. Stiles saw the glimmer of orange in his eye as his irises faded back to their usual hue.

Realisation struck him: he was controlling the PSFs.

“You weren’t organising a hit on medical supplies,” Stiles said, thinking back to the scattered paperwork—the camp numbers and PSF activity. “You were calling in the PSFs... Trying to find them so that you could use them. You’re trading kids for money.”

“Only the less useful ones—Greens and a few Blues,” Theo admitted. “The Reds are off to join Project Jamboree.”

“You son of a bitch,” Boyd growled.

“I don’t want to fight,” Theo said, struggling to stay calm.

“Good, ‘cause I’m twice the size of you,” Boyd replied.

It struck Stiles just how right he was; he loomed at least a head over Theo. His broad shoulders were set and his face was set in a menacing scowl that sent shivers down Stiles’ spine.

“You sit up in your room and you pretend like you want what’s best for everyone, but you don’t do any of the work yourself. You’re a spoiled little shit and a fucking awful piece of crap. You may have everyone else under your control, but you don’t have me fooled.”

Theo turned his glare on Boyd, his eyes lit with an orange glow, but Boyd continued, unwavering and unaffected.

“You talk about all of us being equals, like we’re one big happy rainbow of peace and all that bullshit, but you never once believed that yourself, did you? You think you’re better than all of us, and you keep us all here like pets. You won’t let anyone contact their parents, and you don’t care about the kids who are still trapped in the camps that _your father_ set up. You wouldn’t even listen when the Watch kids brought it up. So what I want to know is, why _can’t_ we leave?” He took another step forward, cutting Theo off before he could talk. “What’s the point of this place, other than for you to get off on how great you are and toy with people and their feelings? I know what you did to Stiles.”

Theo was dangerously still. He looked as if he were about to explode, but his rage gave way to a sickening smirk. “I did more than toy with his feelings.” His eyes flicked to Derek’s face. “Didn’t I, Hale?”

A wave of crimson washed over Derek’s face was enough to tell Stiles exactly what kind of image Theo had pushed into his head.

He moved too fast for Stiles to stop him. He threw himself at Theo, swinging his face towards the teen’s smug face.

Theo’s eyes lit up and Derek froze. Every part of him—every muscle, every joint, every sinew—went still.

Josh tackled Derek to the ground, slamming his fists into Derek’s face.

His head jerked to the side, his eyes hazy and unfocused as blood sprayed across the dusty concrete floor.

“Stop,” Stiles begged, tearing himself free from Boyd’s hold.

There was a sickening crack as Josh’s knuckles hit Derek’s nose, smearing blood across the teen’s face.

He knew what Theo had done to him, knew how it felt for the blood in your veins to turn into cement, to not be able to fight back.

“Stop!”

Josh didn’t let up.

Theo’s voice was cold and level. “I told you, Stiles, you’re not a fighter.”

“You’re right,” Stiles uttered, feeling Isaac tug at the back of his jacket. “I’m a protector. And you… You can go to hell.”

Stiles turned his glare on Josh, his eyes burning as bright as the sun.

The teen froze, his hand pulled back to swing at Derek again. His rigid body straightened, pulling his gun from the holster strapped to his hip and pressing the barrel to his throat.

Theo blinked in surprise.

Boyd scurried forward, looping his arms under Derek’s and dragging the teen back.

Derek’s eyes were still murky and unfocused. He let out a weak groan, his body limp in Boyd’s arms. His legs slid beneath him as he tried to lift himself to his feet.

“Let them go, and you and I can talk,” Stiles bargained.

Theo turned to look at the PSFs, nodding slightly.

The soldiers turned, marching past them and into the camp.

“I’m not the bad guy, Stiles,” Theo said. “I’m just a realist. I’m a survivor.” He took a step forward. “You of all people know what that’s like; trying to survive in a world that isn’t going to get any better. You’re safe here… All of you belong to me.”

He took another step, the quiet click of a gun halting him as Josh cocked the pistol.

Theo bowed his head, a coy smirk playing across his lips.

“I know you, Stiles. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you won’t do it.” He nodded to the man on his left. “But he will.”

Argent raised his gun and aimed it at Stiles.

Theo raised his brow challengingly.

The glow in Stiles’ eyes faded as he yielded his hold on Josh.

The boy blinked himself back to reality, his hand dropping to his side.

“Such heroics,” Theo said condescendingly. “And all for nothing.”

Beyond the deafening beat of his heart in his ears, he heard the rhythmic thump of helicopter blades. Soon after, the gut-wrenching sounds of screams filled the air.

Derek bolted upright, throwing his hand out in front of himself.

Argent went flying backwards, his back hitting the far wall, crashing through the crates and oil drums.

“Get out of here—” His words fell short as the blue glow from his eyes faded and his body fell still.

Boyd caught him before he fell backwards, lifting an arm over his shoulders to support his weight.

Argent’s body fell to the ground with a heavy _thud_ , lying still.

“You just don’t learn, do you, Hale?” Theo laughed.

Stiles lunged forward, slamming his fist into Theo’s face.

The older boy collapsed to the ground.

“Run!” Stiles shouted. He grabbed Derek’s other arm and helped Boyd carry him as they ran out of the shed and into the cold air.

Stiles winced as searing lights burnt his eyes.

He looked up to see helicopters circling the camp, spotlights sweeping across the ground as PSFs dropped down, holding onto limp bodies with black bags over their heads.

They landed on the ground, letting the blindfolded figures drop to their knees in front of them. The PSFs readied their guns and reached for the black bags, pulling them off to reveal the sullen faces of children.

The kids raised their heads, their faces taking on an eerie, radiant glow, as if magma were coursing through their veins. Their hollow eyes stared blankly ahead of them, irises taking on an unnatural crimson hue.

Stiles felt his heart lurch into his throat, his gut twisting.

He heard someone scream from across the camp.

“ _Reds_!”


	20. Chapter 20

Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away. He watched as the Reds eyes lit up, watched as their glowing faces intensified.

They opened their mouths as if to scream, fire erupting from their faces.

A wave of fire rolled towards them.

Derek threw his arms out in front of him, his eyes glowing azure as he dragged a large wooden crate in front of them.

The roaring flames crashed against the wood like a wave against the rocky bluffs, charring the woods and searing the air around them.

“Jamboree,” Stiles uttered as the flames died.

“What?” Boyd asked.

“Raeken stole all the Reds and turned them into his own army,” Stiles explained.

“Which Raeken?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced around the seared crate, his heart sinking into his gut as he watched a figure walk out from the rising smoke.

The screaming kids that ran towards the woods froze, quickly turning and falling into ranks. They dropped to their knees as the figure walked past, the glow of his orange eyes piercing the darkness.

“Go,” Stiles said, lifting Derek’s arm off his shoulder and gently pushing them towards the trees.

“I’m not leaving you!” Derek objected, grabbing Stiles’ arm.

“You can’t fight him,” Stiles said with finality, setting his hand on Derek’s and gently pulling it off his sleeve. “I can.”

His heart broke at the look of pain in Derek’s eyes.

Isaac threw his arms around Stiles’ waist, burying his tear-stained face in the boy’s sweatshirt.

Stiles pried the boy’s arms away. “It’s going to be okay. Go with Derek.”

Derek reached out weakly, his arm shaking as he took Isaac’s hand.

“Go!” His voice caught in his throat, strained as the smoke burnt at his lungs.

Stiles watched them leave, Boyd half-dragging Derek into the shadows of the trees, before turning to face Theo. He swallowed hard, drawing in a steady breath and walking forward.

Fire raged around them, the night lit but the glow of the flames that consumed the cabins and tents. A roaring orange glow consumed the building. Tendril-like flames flickered as they devoured the wooden planks and the dry canvas sheets.

The heat of the blaze radiated against his skin, the glow making the beads of sweat glisten on his forehead.

His heart sank into his stomach as he watched on helplessly as the fire destroyed everything.

Plumes of smoke rose around them, the glow of Theo’s eyes piercing the haze.

The kneeling kids peeled away in rows as Theo passed only to be caught and corralled by the men in black uniforms.

Theo’s eyes dimmed, a wicked smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.

This is what it had come down to; it was just the two of them.

Stiles turned his head, his gaze locked on the nearby PSFs as he felt the roar of power flood his mind. The invisible hands untangled themselves, reaching out to the soldiers.

The men stopped running, straightening upright as they turned and marched over to Stiles’ side. Stiles looked to the other side, his power ensnaring the minds of four more PSFs that were aiming their guns at kids who knelt on the ground with their hands on their heads. The PSFs bolted upright and ran to Stiles’ side, falling in line as the kids scrambled to their feet, grabbing each other’s hands and running towards the trees.

Stiles turned his eyes back to Theo.

The soldiers dropped to their knees, raising their guns and taking aim.

Theo’s eyes glimmered.

The soldiers dropped their aim and fired, the bullets raining around the older boy’s feet.

Stiles let go, his eyes dwindling.

Theo’s didn’t.

The soldiers rose to their feet.

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat, his eyes widening with realisation. He glanced at the soldiers as they turned their aim on him. He leapt forward, falling to the ground as the soldiers open fired.

Bullets tore through flesh, blood sprayed across dirt. Their bodies collapsed, life draining from their corpses as blood pooled on the dusty ground.

Stiles scrambled to his feet, staring in horror.

He heard Theo’s feet strike the ground and spun around, but he was too slow.

Theo’s eyes locked onto his, the static buzz flooding his mind and tearing apart any thoughts he had. He felt his feet turn to stone, making it impossible to run.

His legs gave way beneath him as he fell to his knees.

Theo took a step closer, a smug smile on his lips as he looked down at Stiles.

“It’s okay, Stiles,” he said softly, his voice soothing. “I’m here. Let me take all those sad and angry thoughts and make them go away.”

He reached out, gently brushing the backs of his fingers across the skin of Stiles cheek before cupping Stiles’ face in his hand.

Stiles tried to push back, tried to fight the murky depths of darkness that dragged him down, but it was no use—Theo was stronger than he was.

His eyes fluttered, his eyelids growing heavy as he stared up into Theo’s glowing eyes.

“I can prune, snip, and rewrite you into a new Stiles—the perfect Stiles. The Stiles _I_ want you to be.”

Stiles’ mind grew hazy, darkness creeping in around the edges of his vision. All he could see was Theo.

Only Theo.

Somewhere beyond the darkness, he felt the warm familiarity of a memory drag itself into his thoughts. He heard a familiar voice—his father’s voice—as he read, ‘ _Rabbits need dignity, and, above all, the will to accept their fate_.’

Beyond the misty haze and darkness, a glaring light caught his eye. The rhythmic thumping in his ears slowly drew his mind back to reality. He turned towards the sound, his eyes half-lidded as he looked up at the helicopter.

He held his breath, pushing through the fog that clouded his mind, unfurling the invisible hands and reaching until they grasped something.

He found himself looking through the pilot’s eyes, the spotlight swaying across the ground as they looked through the fire and the smoke at the two of them.

 _Take it down_.

The pilot shoved the joystick forward.

Stiles pulled out of his mind just enough to turn his gaze back to Theo.

“I kind of like how I am,” he shouted.

Theo’s composure broke, shock showing through the cracks. He followed Stiles’ gaze, glancing over his shoulder at the helicopter. His eyes flew open wide as he realised what Stiles had done.

Stiles broke free of Theo’s hold, his legs pedalling beneath him as he scurried to his feet and ran.

The helicopter blades hit the ground first, slicing through the dirt. Stiles’ ears filled with the agonising screech of buckling metal and shattering glass. The roar of fire was deafening as the helicopter erupted into flames.

He tripped, collapsing to the ground. He grunted in pain, looking back over his shoulder to see the rampant blaze. A wall of fire rolled towards him.

Fear turned his blood to ice as he stared at the inferno. His heart beat against his chest.

He felt a familiar tug at the back of jacket as he was hauled backwards.

He let out a yelp as he collided with someone.

They grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet.

Beyond the thundering pulse in his ears and the raging inferno, he heard a familiar voice.

“Stiles! Stiles, can you hear me?”

Stiles blinked the haze from his eyes, struggling to focus. He nodded.

The teen’s face came into focus—dark skin, dark eyes, short hair. Boyd.

 _Derek_ , he thought. _Where’s Derek?_

“We need to run.”

Stiles nodded again, gently pushing at Boyd’s sleeve.

The older boy took off running and Stiles followed. The thick leather soles of his boots thumped the earth as his nimble legs projected him forward. He sprinted through the forest, following Boyd as he moved through the darkness.

The fire disappeared behind them and the cool darkness of the night returned.

Up ahead he saw the shimmer of inky black water. The lake.

Stiles didn’t hesitate. He followed Boyd’s lead as he slid down the embankment and plunged into the water. His arms sank into the mud, his lethargic body dragging behind him as he waded through the sludge. Every muscle in his body ached, refusing to move.

Boyd reached back for him, grabbing his arm and pulling him under the cover of the old wooden dock.

The helicopters flying overhead beat the lake int a frenzy, the blades stirring waves that lashed at Stiles. He struggled to keep his head above the water.

Through the cracks in the wooden pier, he could see the searchlights that danced over the lake’s surface.

Stiles kept one arm over Boyd’s shoulders, using his other hand to hold onto the algae-slick support beams.

Boyd did the same, holding an arm around Stiles’ back to keep him upright and listening as the heavy boots drummed against the ground.

They waited until the sound of footsteps and gunfire had cleared before letting out a sigh of relief.

Stiles let go of the pillar, drawing Boyd close and hugging him as tight as his muscles would let him.

Boyd hugged him back, his face buried in Stiles’ shoulder.

They didn’t dare say a word, but he knew what Boyd wanted to ask, and neither of them could find the words to choke out among the smoke and the screams.


	21. Chapter 21

It was silent for a long time before they worked up the courage to move—the lake growing still as the helicopters flew away and the sound of gunfire fading into silence. They had wanted to leave the water two hours earlier, but the sound of falling trees and the crackling remnants of the fire sent spikes of fear through their heart.

Stiles’ muscles ached, half numb, as he dragged himself out of the shallows and onto the dock. His teeth chattering as the warm glow of the morning sun struggled to fight off the chill.

He helped Boyd pull himself up over the other side of the pier, his clothes soaked through and dripping onto the old wooden boards.

Stiles met his gaze, his voice weak as he rasped, “Derek?”

“I don’t know,” Boyd answered. “We split up. He and Isaac could be anywhere.”

“As long as they’re together,” Stiles said, trying to sound optimistic. _They’ll be okay. They have to be_.

His legs were stiff as he staggered to his feet and made his way towards the track that led back to the camp, staying low to the ground until they were certain they were the only ones left.

The thin wisps of smoke rose from the piles of cinders and ash. The grassy field that was once green and brown was now black, grey and orange. The mist of smoke was replaced by a thin veil of fog that rolled through the decimation.

Most of the cabins were gone—reduced to piles of charred wood and stone. A few still stood, burnt out and hollow, or missing roofs or walls.

The twisted remains of the helicopter sat in the middle of the camp, the glass shattered and the metal buckled and scorched. The bodies of the pilots and the fallen soldiers were gone.

Ash drifted through the air around them like falling snow, collecting on their hair and clinging to their wet clothes.

Stiles turned in circles, his heart sinking as he looked at the devastation.

“This is all my fault,” he muttered.

Boyd levelled him with a confused look. “How is _any_ of this your fault? Raeken called in the PSFs, not you.”

“I should have worked out what he was doing,” Stiles scolded himself. “It was right in front of me. How could I have been so blind?”

“Because he blinded you.”

Stiles met his gaze.

“None of this is your fault,” Boyd said, his voice soft but firm.

Stiles thought back to what had happened in the shed: how Theo’s eyes had lit up with a glint of orange as he tried to silence Boyd, tried to control him—and failed.

“You… you weren’t affected,” he muttered. “He tried it on you, right? But it didn’t work.”

“He _tried_. But—" Boyd tapped a finger against his temple. “Steel trap. Nothing gets in or out.”

Stiles let out a soft chuckle.

“We should go to the Office,” Stiles said, turning to lead the way across the camp. “We can gather up what supplies we can find and then try and look for Derek.”

Boyd’s feet slowed, his eyes darkening. “Stiles…"

“Don’t say it,” Stiles warned, his voice sharp. “Don’t.”

He didn’t want to think about that—it wasn’t an option. Derek had to be okay. He didn’t want to think about Derek, or Isaac, or any of the other kids who had escaped the camp. He didn’t want to think about all the things that could have happened to them.

Stiles ushered Boyd behind him as they crept up the small staircase to the Office. He nudged open the door and stepped in.

The papers and files that had covered the floor and the desk were stored away in boxes stacked in the corner of the room or in binders that were lined up on the bookshelves. The room was as immaculate as it had always been.

Stiles stepped over to the white curtain that divided the room, grabbing the fabric and tearing it back.

The room was empty.

He waved Boyd into the room, stepping over to the desk. He collapsed in the chair and leant against the desk, burying his face in his hands.

“Thank you,” he said after a while.

“For what?” Boyd asked, looking at the table of walkie talkies and the lifeless TV.

“For coming back for me.”

“You dumbass,” he said affectionately, a kind smile lifting the corners of his lips. “You’re always running right into trouble.”

When he didn’t reply, he turned to look at his friend. He stepped over to the desk, gently setting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Stiles?”

“Why did he do it?” Stiles whispered. “He threw them to the wolves.”

“Far be it from me to even approach untangling that hell hole of a mind,” he said quietly, crouching beside Stiles’ chair. “But I think he just liked being in control—in charge. It made him feel powerful to manipulate people because he knew outside of this place he was just as vulnerable as the rest of us. There are some people like that, you know? The darkest minds tend to hide behind the must unlikely faces He put on a good leader act, be he… he wasn’t like Derek—or Miguel. He didn’t want to help kids because he believed everyone deserved to feel strong and protect themselves. He never would have jumped in front of another person… never would have taken a bullet for someone.”

He remembered the glimpse of Derek’s memories, remembered the PSF aiming his gun at Boyd. He remembered Miguel saving Derek’s life—sacrificing his own. He remembered Miguel’s face lit by the floodlights, his hazel eyes meeting Derek’s as he mouthed, ‘It’s okay.’ He remembered the gunshot silenced everything and the blood that stained the snow as Miguel’s body collapsed.

Stiles turned. “I thought Miguel was shot escaping?”

Boyd shook his head. “He was shot protecting me. And he protected me because—” He drew in a deep breath, fighting the tears that welled in his eyes. “Because he thought I couldn’t protect myself. He didn’t realise how much he had taught me.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, feeling tears prick his eyes. “For everything.”

“Me too,” Boyd said.

Stiles dug his hand into the pocket of Derek’s jacket, pulling out the folded scraps of paper. The frayed edges were damp and some of the ink had bled across the paper, but they were still in once piece. He held them up for Boyd to see. “We’d better get these where they belong then.”

“How?” Boyd asked. “We have no way of finding Miguel’s dad or messaging my parents.”

“How much do you want to bet Theo left his laptop behind?” Stiles said, pulling open the side drawer.

He froze. His heart skipped a beat as he stared in disbelief.

He hadn’t actually expected it to be there, but the laptop sat alone in the drawer with a bright yellow Post-It note stuck to it.

He plucked the note off of it, his gut twisting nauseatingly at the sight of the familiar handwriting.

“‘With great victory comes great sacrifice’,” he read.

“Theodore Roosevelt,” Boyd said.

Stiles crushed the note, the paper crunching as he screwed it into a ball and tossed it across the room. He pulled the laptop out of the drawer and set it down on the desk, opening the lid and turning it on before relinquishing his seat to Boyd.

“He wiped it clean,” Boyd said. “But I do have an internet connection.”

“How much battery life does it have?” Stiles asked.

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Do you remember the message for your parents?”

“Enough to make it work. But I’d rather use that time to find Miguel’s dad.”

“It’ll take two seconds—post the message to your parents and while you’re waiting for a response, find Miguel’s dad,” Stiles said firmly.

Stiles moved around the room listlessly, listening to Boyd type. He fidgeted with his hands, the stale smell of the room making anger twisting his gut.

He made his way over to the window, the glass scorched and stained with soot. He shoved the latch back and shoved it open. The rush of cool air brought a wave of relief.

He leant forward, bracing his arms against the windowsill. The camp spread out before him in piles of ashes, scorched earth, and twisted debris, but he could still imagine where the clusters of kids once gathered, waiting for their food or talking around the fire pit. He could see Derek below, the firelight making his eyes shimmer and a smile lighting his face.

He drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Oh my god,” he gasped.

He tore out the room, ignoring Boyd’s voice as he called after him. He stumbled down the stairs and sprinted out the door. He ran towards the cabins, weaving his way around the debris and vaulting over fallen trees.

“Derek!”

The teen turned, his eyes wide with disbelief. His shoulders dropped as he let out a sigh of relief, his body shaking as if he had remembered how to breathe again.

Stiles threw himself into Derek’s arms.

Derek buried his face in his face in the curve of Stiles’ neck, grabbing at fistfuls of his jacket as he held him close. Derek’s knees gave way beneath him and the two of them fell to the ground. His grip didn’t weaken as he uttered, “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

He pulled back just enough to littered kiss across Stiles’ face, to wipe away the tears and soot, to whisper his name like a prayer.

 

 

When they were finally able to move again, Stiles helped Derek limp back up to the Office.

Boyd bolted upright when he saw Derek, knocking the chair aside as he sprinted across the room and threw his arms around his friend.

Derek hugged him back, holding him close and muttering something softly.

Boyd took a step back and eyed Derek up, taking in all of his injuries.

“Do I look as pretty as I feel?” Derek jested.

“You look like shit,” Boyd answered bluntly.

 Derek smiled. “That’s a yes then.”

Boyd’s eyes drifted to the empty doorway. An edge of panic filled his voice as he asked, “Where’s Isaac?”

“He’s with a group of kids from the Watch,” Derek said. “One of them knew about a safe house. They’re heading there.”

“You let him go?!” Boyd shouted.

“It was too dangerous for him to come back here.”

Boyd let out a heavy sigh. He was right, and Boyd knew it.

“Any others make it out?” Boyd asked, making his way back to the laptop to continue his search.

“A few that I know of,” Derek answered. “Twenty at most. All in bad shape. Lydia and Corey found a working car and piled the ones who were scary bad into the back, to go find a hospital or someone who could help.”

“What about the rest of them?” Stiles asked.

“They split.” He dragged his hand down his face, wincing as he bumped the black bruise under his eye.

“Why didn’t _you_?” Boyd demanded. “Why the hell would you come back here when you knew there could still be PSFs?”

“You think that mattered—for a second—if there was even a _chance_ that the two of you were still here?”

“Okay, you two, stop fighting,” Stiles said sharply. “We all know that the PSFs can double back at any time to check for survivors, so Boyd, find out what you can while Derek and I check the supply closet downstairs for anything useful. Meet us downstairs when you’re done.”

Stiles picked the damp letters up off the desk and buried them in his pocket before turning towards the door. Derek followed him.

They made quick work of picking through the supplies, grabbing what little food and medicine they could find and stuffing it in two backpacks that Derek found in the far back corner of the store room and the third that he was still carrying from the night before—Stiles’ bag.

One they were done, they sat down outside on the decking, looking out across the camp.

“You know, if I’m being completely honest, part of me was hoping you two wouldn’t come back for me,” Stiles admitted. “I was hoping you’d just forget about me and get as far away from here as you could.”

“Never,” Derek whispered. “Never, never, never. I am never going to forget you.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue but Derek spoke first. “I don’t think I ever _could_ forget you.”

Derek reached out, hooking a finger around the cord to the hood of Stiles’ sweatshirt.

“God,” he uttered, shaking his head as a soft smile pass over his lips. “Do you know… you make me so happy that sometimes I actually forget to breathe? I’ll look at you and my chest gets so tight… and all I can think about is how much I want to reach over and kiss you.”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile, a soft blush colouring his cheeks. He leant over and pressed a tender kiss to the corner of Derek’s lips.

“Can I make another confession?”

“Of course,” Derek said softly.

Stiles’ voice broke as he choked back tears. “I’m terrified. I can’t control it… I never will be able to.”

Derek levelled him with a look of disbelief, an edge of bitterness in his voice as he asked, “Did Raeken tell you that?”

Stiles froze.

“The guy’s full of shit, Stiles,” Derek said. He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair back from Stiles’ face. His fingers trailed down Stiles’ cheek, cupping his face as he leant forward and kissed him.

Stiles felt his breath fall past his lips, his eyes falling shut as he melted into Derek’s warmth.

Derek drew back, resting his forehead against Stiles’. “You want to be with me, right?”

Stiles nodded.

“Then be with me. We’ll figure it out. If nothing else, I trust you. You can look inside my head and that’s all you see.”

“You really don’t hate me?” Stiles asked, shocked. “You’re not scared? Not even a little?”

“I’m scared to death,” Derek admitted. “But not of you… at least, not for the reasons you’d think.”

“I’m a monster. I’m one of the dangerous ones.”

“No, you’re not,” he said softly. “You’re one of us.”


	22. Chapter 22

Hours later, when it was just the three of them back on the road in a car they had found a few miles west of East River, Stiles and Boyd relayed everything that had happened after they had separated the night before.

“Thank God Boyd found you,” Derek said, shaking his head. “You knew him better than anyone, you knew what he could do, and you still went to face him on your own.”

“I really thought I could fight him,” Stiles said, leaning his head against the cool glass of the car’s window. “I’m an idiot.”

“Yes, you are,” Boyd agreed from where he sat in the back seat. “But you’re _our_ idiot, so be careful next time.”

“Seconded,” Derek added, reaching over and weaving his fingers through Stiles’.

“There’s another one,” Boyd said, tapping his window.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder, just catching a glimpse of the white box that sat on top of a pole on the shoulder of the highway. Cameras—everywhere.

“Maybe we should get off the highway,” Derek suggested.

“No,” Boyd said. “We’ve only seen two cars since we got on the sixty-four, and it’ll take us twice as long to ger to Annandale if we get off again. They’ll be watching for Roscoe, anyway, not this car.”

“So, what did your mum’s message say?” Stiles asked, butting in before the two of them could start arguing again.

“She’s going to make a reservation at my aunt’s restaurant and meet us there,” Boyd answered. “My aunt will probably even feed us.”

“Let’s drop you off first then,” Derek said.

“No,” Boyd said sharply. “I want to deliver Miguel’s letter.”

“Boyd…”

“Don’t _Boyd_ me,” he retorted, making Stiles snort as he smothered a laugh. “I owe Miguel a lot. I want to do this.”

The address Boyd had found for Miguel’s father was at Days Inn motel, far away from the sweet neighbourhood of Annandale. It looked as if the motel had been converted into a temporary housing complex for the workers rebuilding D.C. after the bombing.

Derek parked the car in the far corner of the parking lot, turning off the engine as they sat back and surveyed the building.

It wasn’t long before a rickety old bus pulled up in the parking lot and dozens of dust-covered men clutching neon vests and hard hats staggered off.

“Room 103,” Derek said, leaning forward over the steering wheel and watching who went to the door. “The guy in the red shirt. Yeah, that’s him—Miguel looked just like him.”

Stiles dug into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the letters, finding Miguel’s and passing it back over the his shoulder to Boyd.

“Slow down, Turbo,” Derek said, locking the doors before Boyd could open his. “We can’t just go rushing up to the door; we don’t know if he’s being watched or not.”

“We’ve been here for nearly an hour,” Boyd pointed out. “Do you _see_ anyone watching him? The only other cars in the parking lot are empty. We lay low, like you wanted, and it worked out.”

Derek let out a heavy sigh and reluctantly unlocked the doors. “Just be careful, will you?

Boyd levelled him with a look that said ‘ _Seriously_?’ before climbing out of the car and shutting the door behind himself. He scurried across the parking lot, keeping his head down as he made his way up to the room.

“Admit it, you’re going to miss him,” Stiles said softly.

Derek chuckled quietly. “What am I going to do without him telling me how dangerous it is to open canned food the wrong way?”

Stiles let out a laugh.

Derek waited until Boyd lifted his hand and knocked on the door before unbuckling his seatbelt to lean over and kiss Stiles lightly.

“What was that for?” Stiles asked, a quiet bashful laugh escaping his lips.

“To get your mind on the right track,” he said. “After we take him home, we have to figure out how to find Isaac and the others before the PSFs do.”

“What if—” Stiles’ words died away as the door to room 103 opened, just enough for the chain of the bolt to pull taut. The tired, suspicious face of Miguel’s father appeared.

Boyd held out the piece of paper, saying something that Stiles couldn’t make out.

The man’s face flushed crimson, matching his work shirt. He yelled something, loud enough that his neighbours opened their curtains to see what was happening.

“Something’s wrong,” Derek said, shoving open his door.

Stiles unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his door. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the sound of everything around him.

The door shut in Boyd’s face only to open again, all the way.

Stiles saw a flash of silver, saw Boyd raise his hands and take a step back. His heart stopped as the gunshot rang out through the air.

 

 

“Boyd!” Derek cried out as they ran over to the room.

All the complex’s residents were standing outside now, their faces a monstrous blur as they watched on.

Miguel’s dad raised his shaking gun towards them.

Derek threw his arm out and sent the man flying back into the room, slamming the door shut with a sweep of his hand.

Stiles dropped to his knees, skidding across the asphalt as came to a stop next to Boyd.

His eyes were open, staring up at Stiles. He blinked rapidly, taking in a sharp, shallow breath.

He was alive.

Blood gushed from just below Boyd’s right shoulder, the stain spreading across his chest and darkening the fabric of his shirt.

Stiles pressed his hands to the wound, trying to stop the flowing blood.

Boyd’s lips quivered as he choked on his breath. He tried to say something, but his raspy voice was drowned out by the screaming howl of the man in room 103. “ _Fucking freaks! Get out of here, you goddamn freaks!_ ”

Derek grabbed the man’s gun, aiming it at the adults that surrounded them—an empty threat, but it was enough to get them to back off a bit.

“It’s okay,” someone said behind them.

Derek spun around, his finger on the trigger and his face set in stone.

The man raised his hands, holding up his phone. “I’m just calling nine-one-one. It’s okay. We’ll get him help.”

“Don’t let them call,” Boyd pleaded, his voice broken as he choked on his words. “Don’t let them take me. I have to go home.”

“Stiles, grab his legs,” Derek instructed.

“Don’t move him,” the man from room 104 said. “You’re not supposed to move him.”

Miguel’s father appeared behind them again, but the man with the cell phone tackled him back into the room and kicked the door shut behind him.

“Grab him,” Derek said, shoving the gun in his waistband before hooking his arms under Boyd’s and lifting him off the ground.

One of the men stepped forward—to help them, maybe, or to try and stop them.

“Don’t touch him!” Stiles shouted.

The man backed off, all taking a step back but watching as they carried him to the car.

One of the men called after them, telling them that the ambulance would be there in a minute—the ambulance, along with the PSFs. They wouldn’t save him; they’d rather see a freak die.

“Don’t let them take me,” Boyd choked out. “Keep my legs below my chest. Don’t lift them too high. Not for chest wounds. Breathing difficult—”

It wasn’t the babbling that sent spikes of fear through Stiles’ heart, it was the unending pulse of blood that streamed over Boyd’s hands.

“Don’t let them take me.”

“They’re not taking you anywhere,” Derek said as Stiles threw open the back door and climbed into the back seat, taking Boyd from Derek and dragging him in behind him. The teen’s body laid back against him, the blood seeping into Stiles’ clothes, the unwelcome warmth scorching his skin.

Derek carefully folded Boyd’s long legs before shutting the door. He jumped into the front seat and started the car, the wheels squealing as he tore out of the parking lot.

“Keep… pressure,” Boyd told him. Stiles pressed his hand over Boyd’s, pushing it against the bullet wound. “Harder, Stiles.”

His eyes lit up a bright azure-blue glow.

 _He’s using his powers_ , Stiles realised. _He’s using his powers to hold the blood in._

But it didn’t have much of an effect. If anything, it only wore him out faster.

HIs body shook in Stiles’ arms, his eye lids growing heavy as they began to fall shut.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Stiles begged. “Please, God, don’t close your eyes. Talk to be, Boyd. Talk to me. Tell me what to do.”

“Take me home,” he said quietly. “Stiles, make him take me home.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Stiles said, fighting the tears that blurred his vision.

“My dad… doctor…”

When the glimpses came, they were washed in the same bright red as his blood. A man sitting in a large arm chair with a boy in his lap, a book stretched out in front of them as the man read to his son. A beautiful woman sitting on the nearby couch, nursing a baby.

Derek’s voice shook him from the memory.

“Alexandria is half an hour away,” Derek shouted, glancing back over his shoulder. “I’m not taking you there!”

“Fairfax Hospital,” Boyd wheezed. “My dad… tell them to page my dad…”

“Where is it?” Derek asked, looking from the road to Boyd. He looked at Stiles, but Stiles just shook his head—he didn’t know either.

Derek slammed his foot down on the accelerator, going as fast as the car possibly could.

“Keep him talking,” Derek said. “Boyd—­ _Vernon!_ ”

Boyd’s arm shook violently as he lifted it, holding something up for Stiles.

Miguel’s letter. The edges of the paper were stained with wet blood, but it was still legible—the handwriting small and hastily written.

 

_Dear Dad,_

_When you sent me to school that morning, I thought you loved me._  
_But now I see you for what you are. You called me a monster_  
_and a freak. But you are the one who raised me._

“Tell him to read…” Boyd bit into his lips, swallowing hard as he struggled to get the words out. “Tell Derek to read my letter. I wrote it… for him.”

“Vernon,” Stiles said softly.

“ _Promise_.”

The words caught in Stiles throat, making it impossible for him to speak.

A rush of blood pulsed under their hands, coming faster than before.

He pushed down harder on Boyd’s chest.

“Hold on, Boyd,” he begged. “Hold on.”

“It’s okay,” Boyd rasped, his eyes falling shut as his body weakened in Stiles’ arms. “It’s okay.”

“Where is it?” Derek shouted from the front seat. “Boyd, where is the hospital? You have to tell me where it is!”

The car began to shudder, the engine groaning as a plume of smoke rose from under the hood. One of the wheels struck a pothole and the car spun to the side of the road, letting out one last roar before falling silent.

“No, no, no,” Derek panicked. He shoved open his door. “I can fix it. Just keep him talking.”

Stiles waited until Derek opened the hood before he closed his eyes, letting his tears fall down his cheeks.

Boyd had gone still, so pale, and no amount of shaking or yelling would bring him back out of it.

Stiles felt the streams of blood spill over his fingers.

 _It’s over_ , he remembered Boyd saying that as they sat on the decking the night he and Derek had fought. _It’s all over_.

He let his head fall forward, resting his forehead against Boyd’s. His sobs left his shuddered, tears streaming down his face.

“Don’t die,” Stiles whispered. “Please don’t die. We can’t do this without you, Boyd… We can’t… You can’t… Please…”

 _We’re just kids_ , he thought. _We can’t handle this. We’re just kids._

Outside, Derek was banging metal against metal, growing more agitated, helpless and angry by the second.

He sat upright, his eyes drifting to the black backpack that sat in the footwell behind the passenger’s seat.

He felt his chest tighten, his eyes flicking from the back to the windscreen where he heard Derek scream in frustration.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, although he wasn’t sure who he was saying it too—Derek or Boyd.

It was their last chance—his only choice.

With his free hand, he reached for the bag, pulling open the zip of the back pocket and digging until his found what he was looking for.

He pulled out the long silver chain with the small black button that hung at the end like a pendant. The panic button.

He glanced up out the windscreen one last time before taking the button in his shanking hand and pressing down.

He counted down the twenty seconds, panic setting in as time dragged out. It gave a little vibration, a small acknowledgment, and Stiles released it.

A moment later, Derek slammed the hood down and ran over to the side of the car. He threw the door open.

“I can’t fix it,” he said. “We’ll have to carry him until we can find another car.”

Stiles didn’t look at him, but he felt the moment Derek noticed the panic button in Stiles’ hand.

There was no anger in his voice, just shock as he struggled to find his voice.

“Stiles…”

Stiles forced the words out. “I had to.”

“You don’t know the League like I do,” Derek argued.

“I know they can help him more than we can,” Stiles replied. He turned to look at Derek, his cheeks damp with tears. “I can’t lose him too.”

He expected Derek to be angry, but all he saw was worry and undying trust.

“You should go,” Stiles rasped. “If they find you—”

“I’m not leaving,” Derek interrupted.

“Derek, if they catch you, they won’t be forgiving.”

“I’m not leaving you,” he repeated with finality. He slid into the back seat beside Stiles, pulling the door shut and wrapping his arms around Stiles. “You said you couldn’t lose me, and I can’t lose you.”

The panic button dropped from Stiles’ hold and Derek wrapped his fingers around the boy’s trembling hand, gently squeezing it. Derek pressed a tender kiss to the crown of Stiles’ head.

“So, don’t let go,” he whispered.

Stiles sniffed back his tears. His body trembled as Derek held him close, resting his cheek atop Stiles’ head.

Time dragged on as Stiles stared down at Boyd’s still body.

He heard the loose asphalt crunch as a car pulled up, but he couldn’t look away from his friend.

Derek’s hold on Stiles tightened slightly, his body shifting to shield Stiles like a wolf protecting it’s kin.

Stiles’ arm tightened around Boyd’s chest, holding him close.

He heard heavy footsteps approach the car and the door open behind Derek, felt the cold rush as the bitterly cold air stung his tear-stained cheeks.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he heard a man say. “It’s Derek Hale.”

Stiles felt Derek tense, his bood running cold when he heard the familiar click of a cocked gun.

“Move,” the man said. “And don’t try anything.”

Derek gave Stiles’ hand a gentle squeeze before letting go and sliding out of the car.

Two pairs of hands reached in to lift Stiles out, but didn’t move. His arms were still wound around Boyd, blood soaking his hands.

He let out a gut-wrenching cry as he was pulled from the car, kicking and screaming, desperate to break free of their hold and return to Boyd’s side. He thrashed about violently as the men hauled him onto the road and towards one of the SUVs.

“Stiles, sweetheart,” Melissa said, her voice so tender and full of anguish. “Stiles, you have to let go now.”

Stiles broke free of their hold and ran back towards the car but Derek was faster. He caught Stiles, wrapping his amrs around him and holding him close as Stiles sagged against him and broke down crying.

They were surrounded by black SUVs and soldiers dressed in black, holding guns.

“If you get him help, we’ll go with you,” he heard Derek tell Melissa. “We’ll go with you. We’ll do whatever you want.”

“No,” Stiles cried. “ _No!_ ”

Derek held him steady even though his arms were shaking.

They watched as a few of the soldiers readjusted their grip on their guns and lifted Boyd’s limp body out of the car, loading him into the back of one of the SUVs before tearing off down the highway.

“Where are you taking him?” Stiles shouted. Boyd’s blood was still warm on his skin, the cold air chilling it until it felt like ice.

“Calm down,” Derek whispered, cupping Stiles’ face and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You have to calm down. He’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. I’m right here.” He took step back, levelling his pale aventurine eyes with Stiles’. He brushed the ball of his thumb across Stiles’ cheek. “Okay?”

Stiles nodded.

He’d been so caught up in Derek that he hadn’t noticed the man that had snuck behind him. He let out a sharp gasp as something dug into the back of his neck, gone just as quickly as he had felt it. His eyes flew open wide as he felt his muscles weaken.

“Der—"

His body collapsed beneath him as he fell back into a soldier’s arms.

“No,” he muttered, his voice weak and his lips quivering.

“It’s going to be okay,” Derek promised, his voice drifting away as the world fell silent.

Stiles felt lightheaded. The sound of his shallow breaths filled his ears. He fought to keep his eyes open as someone slid a dark hood over his head.

 _Derek_ , he tried to call out, but he was too far gone.

His heavy eyelids fell shut, his body plummeting through the earth; swallowed by the abysmal darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait... you thought you were safe? You thought the pain was over? I've still got another chapter to go... 😈


	23. Chapter 23

Stiles let out a weak groan as he blinked his eyes open. He squinted against the glaring light that streamed through the drawn curtains.

His head was throbbing, his muscles aching as he tried to sit up.

He pushed himself upright and slouched back against the headboard. He looked down at himself. He was in a clean change of clothes; a faded grey shirt and a pair of black jeans. Derek’s worn leather jacket and his blood-soaked sweater lay at the foot of the bed.

He looked around the room. It wasn’t well furnished – rather minimalistic – but liveable. Simple. The double bed was pressed against the wall with a small oak table resting beside it.

Stiles turned his attention to the wall before him. Thin panels of soft green plaster framed the chipped wooden sill of the window. Flakes of white paint were embedded in the grooves of the panels. The glass clattered and groaned as the wind beat against it. The window sill had been renovated, replaced by a thick plank of ply wood that had not yet been painted to suit its surroundings. Beneath the window sat an old, off-white oil heater, the corrugated iron panel rusting near the connectors and along the pipes. Streaks of orange and grey tore through the white paint like an open wound.

He turned his head, looking at the woman who sat by his bed. She wore the same gold necklace with the pendant that looked like woven strands of gold with four gemstones set into the design. Her soft face was worn with creases, a kind smile lifting the corners of her mouth. He long dark hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, falling in messy waves down her back. A few curls had escaped the elastic tie, falling down around her face.

“You’re okay, Stiles,” Melissa said quietly, her voice soft and warm. “You’re safe. You’re going to be alright.”

Stiles wanted to glare at her, wanted to tell her that he didn’t believe a word she said, but the words never came out. He just stared at her blankly.

“We’re in a safehouse outside of Maryland,” she explained.

“Derek?”

“He’s here too. You’re both safe here.”

Stiles wanted to scoff at that; Derek wasn’t safe here.

His eyes drifted from the window to the door, assessing his options.

“Don’t even think about it,” Melissa said warningly. She reached down to her belt and held up a small silver device, the black grate of the speaker facing Stiles. A White Noise device. “Even if you could get past me, every single one of the agents downstairs are carrying one of these. And judging by your reaction to the last lot of Calm Control, you’re not going to be of much use to Derek when they take him out and shoot him for your insubordination.”

“They wouldn’t—” His words faltered when he saw the truth in her eyes. They would.

“How could you even consider running again?” someone else asked. The sound of his familiar voice sent a spike of anger through Stiles’ heart. “Do you know how much time she wasted looking for you?”

Stiles spun around, looking at the teen.

He slouched back against the far wall. His curly brown hair was pulled back from his face, his expression set in an unwavering scowl. The vein in his forehead throbbed and his icy blue eyes were locked on Stiles. He wore a black tee-shirt and a pair of jeans. A black holster was strapped to his hip—someone had been dumb enough to give him a gun.

Matt.

“Boyd?” Stiles asked, turning away from Matt and levelling his composed glare on Melissa again. “What happened to Boyd?”

Melissa looked down at her hands and something inside of Stiles clenched.

“Honestly,” she started slowly. “I don’t know. We haven’t been able to contact the group of agents that took him, but I do know they made it to the hospital.”

She reached out for Stiles’ hand, but Stiles jerked it back. He didn’t want her to touch him.

“He’s safe,” she said softly. “They’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles said. “You just said so yourself.”

“But I believe it.”

Stiles wanted to laugh in her face, to scream at her that what she ‘believed’ meant nothing to him, but he stayed silent.

“I’ve spent the last month looking for you,” she said, her voice full of concern. “I stayed in this area, hoping you’d eventually show up. Where were you? Where did you go? You look like—”

“East River.”

The answer cut her off. She stared at him in shock.

 _So, the League has heard about what happened_ , Stiles thought.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Matt sneered, pushing himself off the wall. He stalked towards Stiles. “Sitting around on your ass for weeks, doing nothing, huh? Figures. I’ve been actually making a difference. I’ve been part of something.”

Matt reached to grab the front of Stiles’ shirt, but Stiles was faster, catching the teen’s wrist.

Stiles’ eyes lit up orange as he dove into his memories—he wanted to see it for himself.

Matt’s memories bubbled around him like rising tar. Stiles could make out certain details: Matt was wearing a FedEx uniform, clutching a large cardboard box. He was in a musky-smelling elevator. The number on the display counted upwards as they rose. The button for floor 17 was lit up and the bell chimed as they reached the level.

He stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway of the office building. The hallways stretched a long way, connecting the offices of six businesses, the biggest of which was at the end of the hallway: his target. He made his way down the hallway and over to the reception desk just inside the door.

Beyond the desk, there were rows of cubicles where men and women were at work, staring at their computer screens.

He set the large package down on the reception desk.

The receptionist looked confused at the sight of the package, but all it took was Matt brushing a finger across the back of her hand for her eyes to go cloudy, unfocused.

He left the package there and turned to leave, stalking down the hallway and back into the elevator. He pressed the ground floor button and waited as the elevator descended. The coy smirk that played across his face was reflected in the glossy metal of the elevator doors.

The bell chimed and Matt stepped out into the lobby, proudly walking outside towards the waiting FedEx van. As he reached for the door handle, he dug his hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around the detonator, the ball of his thumb brushing against the trigger. He pushed it.

The seventeenth floor erupted in a ball of fire, raining glass and concrete over the streets. There was a thundering crash as the building collapsed in on itself.

Stiles unfurled his fingers, letting his hand fall away from Matt’s wrist, but the glow of his eyes didn’t fade.

He couldn’t help but smirk; weeks ago, he couldn’t fend off Matt—he had had no defence against him—and now, he was able to overpower him with a single touch. But he wasn’t done yet.

“What’s your name?” Stiles asked him.

The colour drained from Matt’s face, his lips smacking together as he tried to form words, tried to call up a memory that was no longer there.

“Where are you from?”

Panic seized Matt, his eyes growing wide as he stared at Stiles in horror.

He felt a pang of guilt in his chest, but it was quickly snuffed out when he remembered how scared and helpless Matt had made him feel the day they met, the things he’d so proudly admit to doing to others, how he had traded another boy’s life for his so he could stay undiscovered.

Stiles wasn’t finished yet.

“Do you know where you are?”

“I don’t—” Matt gasped, tears welling in his eyes. “I don’t—”

“Maybe you should leave,” Stiles said quietly.

No sooner had the words left his mouth did Matt bolt out of the room, slamming the door behind himself as he ran—ran from the monster.

“Impressive,” Melissa said, her expression unreadable.

“I thought he could do with an attitude adjustment,” Stiles said. He turned his eyes on her, his irises still lit with an unnatural hue. After a second, he relented, letting the glow of his eyes fade.

“What’s going to happen to Derek?” he asked, keeping his voice level and his face composed.

“He’s a security risk now that he’s seen this safe house and the agents here. He’s safer with us, Stiles. The president wants him dead. I’m sure he’d come to see that… eventually.”

Stiles felt his heartbeat race as anger flowed like magma through his veins.

A weapon. They wanted to make Derek a weapon. Derek—the guy who wouldn’t even lose his temper without feeling guilty. He’d fought so hard to escape their control and the violence and Stiles had led him right back into their cage.

“I’ll stay,” Stiles said quietly. “I won’t fight you or manipulate you. But if you want me to do as you say, if you want me to use my abilities to fight your battles, then I have one condition. You have to let Derek go.”

“Stiles,” Melissa said quietly, shaking her head. “It’s too dangerous, for everyone involved.”

“He’s a Blue. You don’t need him. He won’t be a fighter, not like you want him to be.”

_And if he stays here, you’ll kill him; you’ll kill every good part of him._

“I can do so much now,” Stiles said. “But you won’t see another hint of what I’m capable of until you let him go. Until you swear you will never chase him down.”

Melissa watched him for a moment, her smoky-quartz eyes full of thought. She let a sigh fall past her lips.

“All right,” she said finally. “He can go.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your promise?” Stiles asked.

She reached out, gently taking Stiles’ hand in her own. She held up the White Noise device—the one thing keeping Stiles out of her head—and pressed int into his palm. He cupped her hand over his, urging him to curl his fingers over the device.

Stiles levelled his gaze with her.

“So help me God,” he said slowly, clearly. “If you go back on your word, I will tear you apart. And I won’t stop, not ever, until I’ve destroyed your life and the lives of every single person in this organisation. Believe me, you may not always keep your promises, but _I_ do.”

Melissa nodded. “Understood.”

 

 

Derek was being held in a bedroom down the hallway. The walls were painted a pale blue—the colour of the sky just before sunrise—and the furniture was just as scarce as it had been in Stiles’ room.

Derek sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Stiles and his eyes staring down at something in his hands.

Stiles quietly shut the door behind himself and took a step forward, glancing over Derek’s shoulder at the wrinkled piece of paper in his hand. He knelt on the bed, the mattress dipping as he crawled up behind Derek and wrapped his arms around him, resting his head in the curve of his neck. He rested his hand against Derek’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

Derek let his head lull backwards falling against Stiles’ shoulder, his eyes falling shut.

“You were right,” he said after a moment, his voice flat—dead but full of grief and misery. He held up the blood-stained piece of paper—Miguel’s letter.

Stiles took it wordlessly, moving to sit beside him.

“You were right. We should have read it. We would have known not to bother.”

Stiles crumbled up the letter and threw it across the room.

Derek shook his head, dragging his hands down his face.

Stiles dug his hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out the crumpled letter he had grabbed  out of his jacket before leaving his room. He held Boyd’s letter out to Derek.

“He told me he didn’t write it for them,” he said, “He wrote it for you. He wanted you to read it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Yes, you do. Because when you get out of here, you’ll want to something to say when you see him again.

“Stiles.” He sounded angry. He stood up and turned to face Stiles. Do you really thing that if he lives, they’re going to let us see him? Do you think they’re even going to let _us_ stay together? That’s not how these people work. They’re going to control every move, right down to who we see and what se eat. Trust me, it’ll be some precious piece of luck if we even find out if he’s alive, never mind if they bring him in for training.”

He began to pace the room.

Stiles felt his chest tighten. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his visions into streaks of colour and light. He blinked them back and drew in a shaky breath. HIs hands shook as he unfolded the letter.

Derek froze, turning to face Stiles and watching Stiles’ face for a reaction.

The room fell silent.

“What?” Derek asked, his voice laced with fear. “What does it say?”

It was blank. There was nothing written on the sheet of paper aside from his parents’ names and address, and there never had been.

Stiles held it out for Derek to see.

Confusion washed over Derek’s face. “I don’t understand… He said he wrote the letter because he thought we wouldn’t get out.”

Stiles shook his head. “He always knew you would. He didn’t write anything because he knew that he’d see his parents again, and everything he had to say to them, he would say to their face. He believed in you. He knew you’d get him out.”

Tears streamed down Derek’s cheeks as he tore up the paper, scrunching it up and throwing it across the room. His knees buckled beneath him as he collapsed against the edge of the bed.

Stiles gently reached out, wrapping his arms around Derek’s shoulders as the boy rested his head against Stiles’ shoulders.

For a long time, he did nothing but hold him, trying to memorise every little detail about him: the way his hair curled at his neck, the faint scar in the corner of his lip, the specks of blue in the seas of his green eyes. The longer he looked, the heavier his heart grew.

After a while, Derek sat up slightly, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist and pulling him close. Stiles curled up against the warmth of his chest, nuzzling his face into the curve of Derek’s neck as Derek rested his cheek atop Stiles’ head.

“The crazy thing is, I had all of these plans,” Derek whispered. “What we were going to do. All the places I wanted to take you. I really wanted you to meet Robert.”

His hand trailed down the length of Stiles’ arm, caressing his warm skin.

“We’ll be okay,” Derek said. “We just can’t let them separate us.”

“They won’t,” Stiles whispered. “I was thinking… I know this is going to sound so corny, but… if there’s one good thing that came out of all of this, it was that I get to meet you. I would go through it all again—" Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision. “I would do it all again if it meant I’d meet you.”

“You really think that?”

“I do.”

“‘Cause, the way I see it, you and me? Inevitable. Even if we didn’t get stuck in those god-awful camps, I still would have sound you—one way or another.”

Stiles sat back on the bed and Derek turned to face him.

“Let me tell you the amazing story of us,” he said softly, reaching for Stiles’ hands. The ball of his thumb traced circled across the back of Stiles’ hand as he began, “It’s the summer, and you’re in Salem, suffering through another boring, hot July, and working part-time at an ice-cream parlour. Naturally, you’re completely oblivious to the fact that all of the boys from your high school who visit daily are more interested in you than the thirty-one flavoured.”

Stiles chuckled, a soft blush colouring his cheeks.

“You’re focused on school and all of your dozens of clubs, because you want to go to a good college and save the world. And just when you think that you’re going to die if you have to take another practice SAT, your dad asks if you want to go visit your grandmother in Virginia Beach.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles said softly, unable to stop himself from smiling. “And what about you?”

“Me?” Derek said, reaching out to brush aside the strand of hair that had fallen across Stiles’ face. “I’m in Wilmington, suffering through another boring, hot summer, working one last time in Harry’s repair shop before going off to some fancy university—where, might I add, my roommate will be a stuck-up-know-it-all-with-a-heart-of-gold named Vernon Milton Boyd IV—but he’s not part of this story, not yet.” His hand gives Stiles’ a gentle squeeze before he continues, “To celebrate, my mum decides to take use up to Virginia Beach for a week. We’re only there for a day when I start catching glimpses of his guy with brown hair and the most gorgeous eyes walking around town, his nose stuck in a book, earphones in and blasting music. And no matter how hard I try, I can never work up the courage to talk to him.”

Stiles met his gaze, his chest tightening.

“Then, as our friend Fate would have it, on our very last day at the beach, I spot him. You. I’m in the middle of playing a volleyball game with Robert, but the second I see you, it’s like everyone else disappears. You’re walking towards me, sunglasses on, wearing a Batman tee-shirt. And then, because, let’s face it, I’m basically and Olympic god when it comes to sports—”

Stiles snorts as he tried to smother his laughter, but Derek continued unhindered, “—I manage to hit the ball right into your face.”

“Ouch,” Stiles said with a laugh. “Sounds painful.”

“Well, you can probably guess how I’d react to that situation. I offer to carry you to the lifeguard station, but you look like you want to murder me for just suggesting it. Eventually, thanks to my sparkling charm and wit—and because I’m so pathetic you take pity on me—you let me buy you ice cream. You start telling me about how you work in an ice cream shop in Salem, and how frustrated you feel that you still have two years before college. And somehow, _somehow_ , I get your email or your social media, and if I’m really lucky I get your phone number. We talk. I go to college and you go back to Salem, but we talk all the time, about everything, and sometimes we do that stupid thing where we run out of things to say and just stop talking and listen to one another breathing until one of is falls asleep—”

“—and Boyd makes fun of you for it,” Stiles added.

“Ruthlessly,” Derek said with an expression that made Stiles laugh. “Your dad hates me because he thinks I’m corrupting his sweet, innocent son.”

“You clearly don’t know my dad,” Stiles scoffed.

“Right, I forgot you were a mischievous child,” Derek says with a quiet chuckle. “Anyway, he lets me visit from time to time. That’s when you tell me about this boy you’re tutoring, Isaac, who lives a few cities away—”

“Who is the coolest, sweetest kid ever,” Stiles said, his voice strained as another wave of tears welled in his eyes.

Derek gently squeezed his hand. “Yeah, he is.”

Stiles felt his heart skip as he met Derek’s gaze.

“Do you know how it ends?”

“I think I do,” Stiles said quietly.

He pulled his hands away from Derek’s, his heart skipping a beat at the look of pain and worry that filled Derek’s eyes.

He had to do it now, or he never would.

“Close your eyes,” Stiles whispered. “I’m going to finish the story.”

Derek let his eyes fall shut as Stiles cupped his cheeks, tilting his hands into the warmth of Stiles’ touch.

Stiles felt his chest tighten, his eyes lighting up with an orange glow as the faint buzz in his mind turned into a roar. He leant forward and brought his lips to Derek’s one last time, slipping into his mind.

Stiles felt the hand Derek rested on his hip tense, his body going rigid for a second as realised what was happening, but there was nothing he could do. Stiles pulled himself from Derek’s memories, day by day, piece by piece; watching as every memory Derek had of him turned to dust and drifted away into nothing.

He watched the memories play by; Derek looking at him when they found him in the back of the Jeep, the awkward encounter in the motel bathroom as Derek handed him a pair of socks, Stiles standing in the parking lot wearing the grey dress Isaac had found him, the way Derek looked at him as they sang along to the radio. He saw Derek looking at him the night they had spent in the woods, every kiss they had shared, and the moment he had seen Stiles running towards him through the ruins of East River. He saw himself through Derek’s eyes; the tousled mess of his hair, his sweet, rare smile, the way the sunlight caught his chestnut-brown eyes and turned them into pools of gold.

And, slowly, all those memories faded, drifting away like wisps of smoke.

Stiles felt a tear fall down his cheek.

He thought of Boyd and had to make a split-second decision; if he was alive—and he had to be—the League would bring him in. If Derek knew that, he’d come back to find him, and the deal would be for nothing.

Stiles would take care of him; he’d find a way to get Boyd out.

There was no reason Derek couldn’t believe that his friend had made it home to his parents.

So, Stiles rewrote the memories.

Stiles broke away from the kiss, his fingers brushing against Derek’s cheek as he slowly drew back. He opened his eyes, the glow of his irises fading as he watched Derek for a second.

Derek stayed still, his hands resting in front of himself, his eyes shut.

Stiles pulled away from him, wiping the tears from his face as he rose to his feet and stepped away from the bed.

The bedroom door opened and Melissa stepped into the room, holding a black backpack.

Stiles took it from her, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the small wolf keychain he’d dug out of his sweatshirt earlier. He fastened it to one of the zippers before turning back to face Derek.

Slowly, his bright aventurine eyes opened, clear and focused. He looked up at Stiles and there wasn’t the slightest bit of recognition in his face.

“What happened?” he asked, looking between Stiles and Melissa. He reached up, his fingers gently prodding at his swollen, bruised face.

“You were in a car crash,” Stiles said. “The League picked you up.”

Melissa watched Stiles, trying to work out what had happened.

“The League…” Derek repeated, narrowing his eyes on Stiles.

“Yes, but if you feel well enough, you can go,” Melissa said, going along with Stiles’ lie. “Your sister asked us to give you enough money for a bus ticket.”

“I bet she did,” Derek grumbled, reaching down beside the bed for his boots and pulling them on. “Why can’t I remember the accident?”

“Does your head still hurt?” Stiles asked without missing a beat.

“A little,” he answered.

“You hit it pretty hard,” Stiles said.

He finished lacing up his boots and stood up, grabbing the coat that laid across the end of his bed, his brows drawn together in confusion. “And the League is just letting me go?”

Melissa nodded and held out a paper envelope.

Derek shoved it back at her. “I don’t want your money.”

“The procedure to contact your parents is also in here,” she said, holding the envelope out again.

“Don’t want it,” Derek repeated firmly. “Don’t need it.”

“What am I meant to tell Laura?”

He pulled on his coat, levelling Melissa with a look. “Tell her to come home, then we’ll talk.” He turned to Stiles. “What about you? Are you really one of them? You look like you have a lot more sense than that.”

Stiles took the envelope from Melissa and slid it into the battered, dirty black backpack. He took a step forward, meeting Derek’s gaze as he pressed it into his hand—this time, Derek didn’t throw it back.

Stiles swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away. “You’d better get going.”

“I’m not going to thank you,” Derek said, looking from Stiles to Melissa. I didn’t ask for your help.”

“You didn’t have to,” Melissa said softly as she opened the door and nodded towards the hallway. “And you never need to.”

Stiles led Derek downstairs and to the front door. He held open the door and watched as Derek shrugged the bag onto his back and stepped outside into the sunlight.

“Hey—” Stiles called after him.

Derek stopped, turning back to look at him.

“Be careful.”

Derek nodded. “You too, darlin’.”

Stiles shut the door, watching through the small window beside it as Derek walked down the small footpath, pausing for a second at the gate and looking back, just once, before he took off and ran down the street.

Stiles pressed his hand to his mouth, fighting the sob that worked its way out of his chest as he watched Derek go.

_‘All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning._

_Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.’_

He closed his eyes for a second, imagining Derek running into the woods, disappearing among the sun-bathes undergrowth. His feet pounded the earth as he ran—never looking back.

He swallowed hard, blinking back his tears as Melissa came up behind him.

She reached out and gently rubbed his back.

“You’ll be okay,” she said softly.

Stiles stepped away from the window, wondering if she still thought he was the terrified boy who she had carried out of Thurmond, the boy who had cried the first time he’d seen the stars.

She didn’t know there were two of him now; split between everything he wanted, and everything he would now have to be. One of him, the hardest, angriest part, would stay with these monsters and slowly find himself twisting into their shape. The other part of him, he’d never let them see. He’d never let them touch that part of him.

He let his breath fall past his lips, his face cold and composed.

He heard Scott’s voice in his head, echoing the words he’d said their first day in Thurmond: _Don’t be scared. Don’t let them see._

He turned away from the window and he didn’t look back.

_I am coming_

_for all the monsters that ever touched him._

_I am coming_

_for all the ones who twisted his stars into shadows._

_They turned him into a nightmare,_

_So I’m going to be theirs._

 

\- and they’ll never wake up // k.s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worry not, I will be continuing this series, but first I need to finish another series.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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